


minor fall, major lift

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: A lot of piano and cello, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Use, Elementary School Shenanigans, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Music, Mutual Pining, New York, Smut, Some depression, Teaching, The Lord of the Rings References, here I go again with another outlandish au, shameless western holiday observances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26884714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: Korra is an elementary school music teacher, Kuvira is a concert pianist, and together they make a most unexpected harmony. This is a love story.
Relationships: Bumi II/Iroh II (Avatar), Korra/Kuvira (Avatar), Mako/Prince Wu (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 106





	1. miroirs, m.43: 3. une barque sur l'océan

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my grand experiment! I'll do my best to post new chapters regularly. trust me, that rating will change. wish me luck.
> 
> (every chapter title is a song. you should imagine kuvira and/or korra playing it.)

_“Here’s_ the note, people.” Korra presses the key for the fourth time, nodding encouragingly at the class as she hums it loudly as well. “Let me hear you try it again.” 

The assembled gaggle of 7 year olds open their mouths, and Korra does her best not to flinch at the largely atonal cacophony that’s trumpeted back at her. 

“Better!” She’s lying, but she’s enthusiastic about it, and for little kids, that’s usually all you need. “Much, much better. Okay!” she chirps, moving from the piano and over to the Smartboard, where she presses a button to reveal the first line of their new song, complete with bird graphics. Technology. Sometimes she almost wishes for a good old chalkboard, but those days are long past. Predictably, the children gasp in excitement, as usual, latching on to any activity transition with heartfelt glee.

“Ooh, _pretty!”_

“Is that a hummingbird?” 

“Miss Korra, Jet wiped his booger on me!”

“Jet!” she sighs sharply, turning to shoot the unruly boy a forbidding glare. He quails a bit in his spot, stuffing both hands into his pockets. “That’s disgusting. Do not use your classmates as tissues.” Mollified when the class erupts into giggles, Korra smirks, then claps her hands. “This is our new song. It’s not about a _hummingbird_ , Jin, though that is a great guess. It is a…” she pauses, eyes sweeping the class slowly, letting the anticipation build. “A kookaburra!”

Just as she figured, the second graders burst into hysterics at the funny sounding word, and she nods good naturedly for a few seconds before attempting to calm them. “Okay, okay! Who can repeat that back to me? Hey!” She gives a short blow of her whistle, eyes wide and expectant. “One, two!”

“Eyes on you,” most of them parrot obediently. 

“Hama, what did I say the name of this bird was?” Korra asks, disrupting the chatty girl’s whispered conversation to her neighbor as she taps the board. “Do you remember?”

“A...koo...koo-berry.”

Korra gives the clock a wearied glance as the giggles begins anew, louder this time. Eighteen minutes.

* * *

It was only meant to be a temporary gig.

Being a music school student was bad enough, financially speaking, but a dropout? Infinitely worse. It was that or continue to slowly lose her mind, though, drowning within a swiftly rising sea of anxiety and something deeper, darker, the constant yearning to just lie down, forget the world, and cease existing. Usually, playing her cello was enough to drag her upwards, gasping, to the surface. Usually, until it wasn’t. Until she kept missing classes and failing simple assignments, then harder assignments, then skipping important meetings and turning off her phone to stare woodenly at her ceiling, trying to discern a hidden pattern of notes in the cracked molding. Maybe she would find the song, _the_ ultimate composition, to lift her out for good.

She never found those notes. Turns out, a careful combination of therapy and medication was the buoy she’d been lacking. That, and saying farewell to a masters degree in Composition from Columbia.

It was a bizarre confluence of fate that saved her from subletting her apartment to sleep in the Barnes & Noble down the block: Asami’s school lost their longstanding music teacher to a heart attack, may God rest her soul, and they were in a bind. With the annual holiday concert just over a month away, a surprising dearth of available candidates at such an awkward point in the school year, and a student body whose families were the kind to have a different nanny depending on the day of the week and use ‘summer’ as a verb, finding a properly credentialed music teacher was of utmost importance. Luckily, Asami had enough credibility to make a case for Korra, who was a rather pathetic shell of her former self, though able to muster just enough vivacity and musical skill to impress Tenzin during her demo lesson. And thus, she became employed by Air Temple Charter School, bringing home more in bi-monthly paychecks than she ever thought possible for an elementary school music teacher.

That was almost three years ago, and it turns out, Korra is actually pretty good at her job. There’s something ineffably satisfying about breaking down the complexity of music to its most basic, composite parts for a room full of adorable, squirming children to understand. From distributing triangles and tambourines and maracas to kindergarteners to teaching a three-part harmony to fifth graders, and all of the glorious chaos in between, being Miss Korra with the musical notes on her classroom door is almost enough to scratch that persistent, yearning itch.

Almost.

Korra makes it to Carnegie Hall a full thirty minutes before she needs to be in place, awaiting the very first guests, and slips into her favorite practice room, the small one off of a hidden alcove, bearing just a worn old piano, scuffed bench, and, for whatever reason, an ancient green velvet chaise lounge. She sinks onto the bench and rolls her neck, shoulders popping as she settles her fingers on the keys, plucking out a half-forgotten melody, humming softly as she plays. String instruments have always been more her style, the cello the nearest and dearest to her heart, but there’s a certain grandeur to piano that she can’t help but admire. Even if her skills are still embarrassingly pedestrian, suitable only for teaching maybe a few of her more challenged third graders how to play. 

Nonetheless, after a few minutes she loses herself in the slow meditativeness of the instrument, the gentle chords of Chopin’s Op. 28 springing to memory as she plays, first hesitant, then more confident. A mistake here and there, but no one is here to hear it, hear her sighs and gentle, self-deprecating chuckles as she pauses, frowning at her fingers, and then continues, nodding to herself when she finds the thread once more. Or so she thinks.

“I’m really sorry to interrupt—”

“HOLY shit,” Korra gasps, heart racing as she whirls around in the direction of the low voice, and wondering, not for the first time, if getting caught playing one of the instruments when she should have technically been getting into uniform was a firable offense. There’s a woman standing in the doorway wearing black jeans, a deep green sweater and black leather jacket, as well as an apologetic grimace, a large garment bag folded over her arm. Even half-shrouded by shadow against the dimly lit hall, Korra is a bit taken aback by her striking features, the sharply angled jaw and thick, pointed brows. “Um...hi?”

“Hi. I’m—” the woman shakes her head once, glances behind her with a restlessness that telegraphs a mild panic. She looks back at Korra, lifts and drops her unoccupied arm with frustrated surrender. “This is embarrassing. My flight was really delayed, I got turned around trying to find my dressing room, and there’s no phone service down here...”

“Sure, right. Of course.” Korra stands quickly, slipping into usher mode. She hopes the woman won’t ask why she’s not in the proper getup, or indeed, why she’s been hidden away taking advantage of the wealth of instruments scattered around the bowels of the hall—but honestly, she seems pretty consumed with her own current predicament. She steps aside as Korra approaches with a grateful half smile—her eyes are an arresting shade of green, and she has a beauty mark below the right one—and Korra moves past her to enter the hallway, jabbing her head in the right direction. “Dressing rooms are this way.” She looks very familiar, and Korra feels a stab of guilt for not paying as close attention to the nightly performer list as she was supposed to. Music school dropout, indeed. “Miss, uh?”

The woman follows gratefully, and there’s a steady, low whir as she wheels her suitcase along. “Just—Kuvira is fine.”

Korra’s face burns as her memory finally kicks into gear, grateful that her horrified expression is hidden as she leads Kuvira through the winding hallways. “Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize, um.” Her face has only been plastered across every display board for the past month, announcing the final stop in her world tour. “I can be a little oblivious.”

Kuvira doesn’t say anything for a moment, but when she finally does, she sounds amused. “Are you going to tell me your name? Or should I call you oblivious?”

Korra glances back at her, surprised by the humor in her voice. Most musicians coming through here are too preoccupied to pay her much attention, which Korra can understand. Kuvira meets her eyes with a small smile, gently shaking her hair out of her face as she adjusts the garment bag on her arm. Now that she’s finally connected the dots in her mind, Korra can see where the poster didn’t really do her justice—they rarely do—as it only depicted her in shadowy profile. 

_Oh no,_ Korra thinks somewhat despairingly. _She’s hot._

“Korra,” she says finally, with what she hopes is a neutrally friendly expression. “Nice to meet you. And,” she pauses, gesturing to the door to the dressing room. “Here you go. I’ll go get—”

“Miss Beifong! Oh, thank _goodness_ ,” Hou-Ting exclaims, rushing over to give Kuvira an honest to God bow, more flustered than Korra’s ever seen her. “I deeply, deeply apologize; there was an urgent matter that kept my attention longer than anticipated, otherwise I would have met you at—”

“That’s quite alright,” Kuvira placates, giving the panicked director a warm smile, then nodding at Korra. “I managed, thanks to Korra’s help.”

“Yes,” Hou-Ting sniffs, noticing Korra for the first time, her expression schooled back into its familiar set of polite disdain. “That is fortunate. Korra, I believe you should be at your post in just a few minutes?”

“Of course.” Korra makes to rush away, then hesitates, wanting to say—something—to Kuvira, but she’ll be damned if she can come up with something snappy and memorable enough, especially with her boss standing there. She settles for a small smile. “Nice to meet you. Kuvira.”

“You too.” Kuvira holds her gaze a few seconds longer than is strictly necessary, Korra is almost certain, as Hou-Ting continues her chatter while directing Kuvira into the dressing room. But Korra doesn’t have time to dwell on that, because she really _is_ running late; she’ll have to sprint to front of house to grab her stack of programs, and even if she can technically afford to lose this source of secondary income, she refuses to fail at things. Not anymore, no matter how inconsequential this job may feel in the grander scheme. She jogs the rest of the way to the ushers’ changing rooms.

* * *

“How did your shift go last night?” Asami asks the next afternoon, punching numbers into the microwave to heat up her lunch. She straightens and turns around, eyes narrowing as she takes in Korra’s flushed cheeks. 

“It was fine.”

“Nuh-uh.” Asami stalks over to Korra, who’s seated at their usual roundtable, absolutely fascinated by the sheet music she’s flipping through. “What happened, why are you blushing? Some secret lovin’ amongst the tubas?”

Korra levels a half-hearted glare at her. “That was awful.”

“So is your deflection!”

Korra groans, rolling her eyes. Asami is too damn observant for her own good. “Seriously, nothing. I just met—someone.”

“WHO?”

“Her name is Kuvira. This is stupid. She’s, like, so unattainable it’s unreal. I’ll never see her again.” Korra googled her for two hours before bed, which was so embarrassing she can feel her cheeks turning warm again. Kuvira is three years older than Korra, had lived in six different countries by the age of 18, and performed for the Queen of England at 21. 

So in retrospect, no surprise that she had played the piano so masterfully, so tenderly, full of such ineffable _grace_ that Korra didn’t even know she was crying until an old woman in the audience happened to glance over and offer her a tissue. 

“How do you know that?” Asami asks, as the microwave beeps. She retrieves her Tupperware and comes to sit across from Korra, lifting the lid to let the steam escape. “Does she live here? Brooklyn or Manhattan?”

“Manhattan,” Korra responds unthinkingly, then freezes.

“Ah, so you _did_ do your stalking.” Asami winks at Korra, lifting a bite to her mouth, blowing on her fork. “You ain’t slick, sweetheart. Come on, let me see.” She gestures at Korra’s phone briskly.

“Absolutely n—”

“One chopped cheese and Honest Green Tea,” Mako calls out as he breezes through the double doors of the faculty lounge, outfitted in his typical uniform: a semi-shiny tracksuit, color-coordinated corded whistle around his neck. Today’s shade: Mango Tango, by Crayola’s classification. He makes his way over and deposits Korra’s bag into her grabby hands, then turns to Asami with an expression of apologetic anguish, arms outstretched in surrender.

“No,” she groans, as he opens his mouth. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m sorry, I scoured every shelf and asked the guy twice. Again, he had no clue what I was talking about.”

“Does she still have you searching for Hot Pickle Cheetos? Mako, she’s just shitting you.”

“I am _not!”_ Asami cries, shooting up in her seat, placing a hand over her heart in grievous insult. “I’ve _had_ them before, from that bodega! I shared them with you! It was after the spring auction, the bartender made the punch way too strong and we were desperate for snacks and it was raining, how do you not remember this?”

Korra just tilts her head at Asami and shakes it slowly, trying not to laugh. “No, that’s just not a thing that happened. It was a vividly lucid dream, maybe, or you’re just really committed to this Hot Pickle Cheeto bit. I still can’t decide which.”

“Aaaaanyway,” Mako says, clapping once, as Asami throws her hands up in frustration with a low groan. “This has been fun. Happy, as always, to perform my ex-boyfriend delivery service. Tips warmly welcomed.”

“Love you, thank you,” Korra says around a mouthful of sandwich.

“You’re not staying?” Asami asks, reaching for Korra’s Green Tea, mouth dropping open in faux outrage when Korra slaps her hand away.

“Nah, gonna go bother the Lunchlady before an IEP meeting in half an hour.” 

“Whose?”

“Azula.” Mako pitches his voice lower and leans against the table, just widening his eyes meaningfully, because a few more staff have wandered in since his entrance. “Always a good time.”

“Oof, condolences,” Korra responds, wincing, as Asami nods in agreement. “Her dad hurts puppies in his spare time, I’m pretty sure.”

_“Azula._ Wow.” Asami chuckles a little, shaking her head. “I got one year of five year old Azula, and I loved her in her own way, but I think I’d cry if I had to deal with her as a 10 year old every single day.”

“That’s why Bumi and June are like that,” Mako says sagely, then turns to check the clock that’s hung on the wood-paneled walls above the ANNOUNCEMENTS bulletin board. “Okay, last minute gossip before I go. Hit me.”

“Korra’s got a new professional pianist crush.” Asami raises a challenging eyebrow at Korra’s immediate noises of protest. “Oh, am I _wrong?”_

“Who?” Mako asks, intrigued, and Asami gestures to him triumphantly, nodding. 

“She was just about to show me. Don’t be shy!” Asami flips Korra’s phone so that it’s face up, presses the home screen, futilely, as it doesn’t recognize her fingerprint to unlock, but her point is made. Korra sighs explosively, giving up and picking up her phone, unlocking it, opening her browser. Hitting ‘Images.’

“She still had the search page open,” she hears Asami mutter to Mako. “You see that?”

“I saw it.”

“I swear to god, I hate you two.”

“Oh shhhhit, she’s hot,” Asami gasps as Korra turns her phone around, taking it and scrolling further, Mako right over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah! I’ve seen her on the subway!”

“What? When?” 

“No, like, in an ad.”

Mako squints at the phone as Asami scrolls, glances up at Korra just as she’s taking another bite of her sandwich. “Yeah, she’s your type. And you met her through your job? Do... _ushers_ usually get to meet the performers?”

Korra swallows, narrowing her eyes at him. “I don’t like the way you said that,” she sniffs, rolling her eyes when he shrugs grandly, unrepentant. “But no, usually not. She was lost, so she wandered past a room I was in and I brought her to the dressing room.”

Asami smiles dreamily, nodding. “So that was a meet-cute.”

“Sounds like it,” Mako agrees, cupping Korra’s shoulder warmly. “I’m off. Good luck with Enya, keep us posted.”

“Enya?” Korra laughs into a sip of her green tea.

“Give the Lunchlady our love!” Asami calls, as he disappears out of the doors again, then sighs thoughtfully, spearing some more of her food onto her fork. “How many tracksuits do you think he actually owns? And do you think it’s just, like, an endless wall of them arranged in a perfect roy-gee-biv gradient in his closet?”

“No, he’s got them all individually wrapped in those vacuum sealer bag things, just dressers and dressers full of them.” They both snort when they laugh this hard while trying to keep it at a faculty lounge respectable volume, which only makes anything they’re laughing at seven times more hilarious. “Okay, but seriously,” Korra manages eventually, giggles just starting to subside. _“Enya?”_

Which only sets them off again.

* * *

Friday afternoons with Bumi’s fifth grade class are an adventure, every time. 

“WAIT, hang on, nope, pause,” Korra yells, banging out a series of discordant notes on the piano as the kids burst into giggles, the feeble, halting rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock” brought to a merciful end. Not the most orthodox way to demonstrate proper respect and care of musical instruments, but it is, Korra has found, the best way to attract all of their attention quickly. “Let’s back up. Altos only this time, from measure sixteen.”

“This wack song measures my sixteen,” Ren shouts from the back row of tenors, drawing equal amounts raucous, encouraging laughter from most of the boys and disgusted groans and sighs from the girls. 

“Hilarious,” Korra deadpans, fixing him with an unimpressed stare. “Keep your next joke to yourself or you’ll spend the rest of this period with Principal Tenzin. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your unique sense of humor.”

There’s a low chorus of ooohs as Korra plays the lead-in to the indicated measure. _“Alto, here’s your key,”_ she sings loudly, nodding at them, biting back a smile as Ty Lee gazes at her intensely, clearly humming the note to herself, forever a marked contrast from her best friends. Mai’s mouth barely moves when she sings, though she actually has a decent voice, which Korra overheard one day quite by accident—and Azula, so accustomed to being a prodigy in all of her other subjects, consistently humbled by her inability to find the note in chorus. This shortcoming, combined with the fact that her older brother, Zuko, was actually one of Korra’s best students and performed quite a few solos throughout his five years at Air Temple, put her in the awkward position of wanting to prove herself capable while not making a fool of herself. Korra disliked seeing any student buffet uncomfortably against impossible standards set by older siblings—though it was extremely common among this population in particular—but she couldn’t deny that a somewhat less aggressive and power-trippy Azula than her colleagues faced on a daily basis was an incredible blessing. 

Once she’s satisfied with the altos remembering their notes, for the most part, Korra repeats the exercise with the sopranos, then tenors. She has just enough time for a final, rough run-through of the song (if Ren belches on the final _“roooock!”_ she pretends not to hear it) before Bumi returns to round the kids up so they’ll be ready to leave at the sound of the bell.

“Come on, come on, you little rugrats, how quickly can you form this line?” He yells at them his grandfatherly gruff way, catching Shao by the shoulders as he makes a beeline for the door, jostling him back into place, making him and the other kids laugh. “Have you taken leave of your senses, pre-pubescent pipsqueak?”

Korra snorts as she packs up her sheet music, closing the piano lid and leaning against it with an elbow. “Bumi, what are we going to do with that one?” she asks with a sigh. Bumi glances over and Korra shrugs minutely, indicating a m6 on the Ren scale, and he lifts an exhausted eyebrow, shoots a glare down at the bucktoothed boy.

“A few hours in the chokey oughta do it,” he nods sagely, stroking his chin, and the kids squeal. Pema had just finished reading Matilda to the kids in the library last week, so the imagery was top of mind. 

“That’s not real,” Ren scoffs, but can’t quite hide the quaver in his voice. His half-worried expression melts into humor again when Bumi pretends to catch him in a tight headlock, tousling his hair.

“Then don’t make us build one and make it real,” he growls, as the bell rings. “Everyone! Tell Miss Korra to enjoy her weekend, have some manners.”

“HAVE A GOOD WEEKEND MISS KORRA!”

“Bye, guys. Bumi, a pleasure.”

“Later, teach! All right, ya scoundrels, we’re moving out! Backpacks on! Hang on, I see a sweater on the floor, I see a planner on this chair—

“It’s Roku’s!!”

“Roku, your mother doesn’t want me to tell her you lost another planner, does she?”

“No sir.”

“Then put that thing in your bag and I want to hear it zipped up! Let’s try this again! Look alive, let’s go, hands to yourself, hold the door for the person behind you—”

Korra watches them go wearily, waiting until the door finally slams shut to begin gathering her things, tidying the room a bit before locking up, jogging down the steps and passing through the congested, noisy hallways on her way to the lower grades’ wing. Asami’s not there, of course, having taken her class of kindergarteners to after-school care, so Korra plops herself in her swivel chair, checking her email and scrolling through Instagram while she waits. There’s an ad for Kuvira Beifong at Carnegie Hall—FINAL PERFORMANCE—halfway down her timeline, and Korra has one moment to feel a pang of annoyance that she isn’t on the schedule that night before the door opens to admit Asami, who just closes it behind her and slumps tiredly, her hair limp in its long ponytail, a dash of purple paint staining her grey skirt. 

“Who told me to teach?”

“You love teaching.”

“Ugh,” Asami sighs, pulling out her scrunchie and shaking out her hair. “If you say so. We’re drinking tonight, yes?”

“I’m down. E’s? I’ll text the boys.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Close to an hour later finds them squeezing into their favorite booth at E’s bar, first round in hand. Well, except for one.

“Where the hell did Lunchlady go?” Mako wonders, after taking his first sip.

“You know the rule!” Bolin exclaims, rounding the corner and shuffling in beside Korra, scowling across the table at Mako. “We’re not on school grounds, so that is not my name!”

“My bad, my bad.”

“Is Zhu Li coming?” Korra asks Asami, whose eyes are narrowed at her phone. She types for another few seconds, then shakes her head, sighing.

“She got stuck at work and won’t be able to duck out like she’d hoped. Big kid job probs.” Asami yawns suddenly, swinging an arm back behind the booth and half-turning to rest her head against the deep red padded seat. “I’m beat anyway; I only have two hours or so before I collapse.”

“So that’s a no to karaoke, then?” Bolin pouts. “Wei is still out of town, I’m bored and it’s Friday night! And you’re proposing we waste our youth?!”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Bolin, Asami’s practically a married woman,” Korra snorts, and Asami shrugs and nods unapologetically. “But also, _how_ do you have so much energy at the end of the week?”

“It’s cocaine,” Mako deadpans, cutting off whatever Bolin had been about to say. “Everyone knows cafeteria staff have the good stuff.”

“I swear to god, bro,” Bolin murmurs, looking around the bar with put-upon agitation before pointing a stern finger at Mako. “If you get me fired on a fraudulent drug charges, I’m sending you to gym teacher hell.”

“P.E.,” Korra and Asami intone in unison before Mako can.

“P.E. hell,” Bolin corrects smoothly, as Mako tries and fails to hide a grin. “It’s an accursèd place, where the locker room floors are always damp with mystery liquid, and the kickball games stretch on for infinity.”

“I mean, I like kickball.”

* * *

Despite Bolin’s initial protests, they collectively decide to call it before 9 PM, each going their separate way: Asami to Zhu Li’s apartment in Chelsea, Bolin and Mako heading to their homes in Crown Heights and Cobble Hill, respectively. Korra would normally ride most of the way with Bolin before changing trains, but the early autumn evening is gorgeous—not too cold, at least not yet, with the occasional mild breeze—and Magnolia Bakery is only a couple blocks away. Their banana pudding is absolutely one of Korra’s favorite comfort foods, and if she’s feeling a little sorry for herself, so what? She certainly didn’t _ask_ her friends to rehash the Kuvira thing all over again, fawning over her photos on Google and even going so far as to pull up a YouTube performance from a few years ago when Kuvira had performed a snappy jazz number at Preservation Hall in New Orleans. The grin she’d tossed the cheering crowd at the end made Korra feel like she was slowly melting into her size 10 Doc Martens.

The bakery is busy, but not too crowded, and Korra wonders if maybe she should branch out tonight, for the first time ever, actually inspect the menu to see if anything else strikes her fancy. She’s debating the merits of a mini-cheesecake over a slice of straight up chocolate cake—just go full pining gay for a night, then never allow herself to speak or think of Kuvira again—when there’s an unexpected low laugh from directly behind her, making her jump. Before she’s even turned fully around, she knows exactly who it is, goosebumps rising on her arms.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Kuvira jokes, and she’s in that leather jacket again, her long hair pulled back into a loose, low ponytail that’s slung over her shoulder. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Her smirk is knowing and pleasantly surprised, and Korra wonders if she’s dreaming. “Again.”

“No, it’s. I—” Korra has no idea what she’s going to say, feeling distinctly out of sorts at Kuvira’s sudden reappearance, as if miraculously conjured by the pure force of Korra’s crush. “It’s, um, fine. I don’t know why I’m so jumpy. It’s good to see you! Again.” She clears her throat, wanting to wince at her own rambling, and laments that third vodka soda. 

If Kuvira is put off by her complete lack of composure, she doesn’t show it, just nods, her eyes dropping to the ground momentarily before finding Korra’s again. “You too, actually. I was—”

“You ladies ready to order?” a cashier calls brightly, and Kuvira’s mouth snaps shut, glancing over at Korra while lifting a questioning eyebrow. 

“Yeah! I’m ready.” Korra makes her way over to the counter, followed by Kuvira. “A large banana pudding, please.” 

“Interesting,” Kuvira murmurs, and Korra looks over in surprise, not sure whether she should be pleased or embarrassed. It’s quickly cleared up when Kuvira looks at the cashier and places her order. “Two of those, actually.”

“Ha! Good taste,” Korra notes, and Kuvira shrugs expansively, pulling her wallet out of an inside jacket pocket. 

“Why tamper with perfection, you know?” Kuvira asks, and hands over her card, which Korra realizes is about to pay for both of their orders.

“No, please, you don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. Consider this my belated thanks for the other day.” Kuvira gives her that small smile again, her eyes traveling Korra’s face, and Korra only remembers to breathe when the cashier pulls her attention away to give back her card. She watches Kuvira’s profile as she replaces the card, takes her bag, and then flushes red when Kuvira catches her, handing over the identical bag holding her container, her expression gently puzzled.

“Been a long week,” she fudges, taking the bag gratefully. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” They make their way to the door, wait as a young family enters the bakery, and then the doorway is clear to admit them back out onto the busy sidewalk, the air having grown rapidly cooler in the deepening night. “Long week of what?” Kuvira asks, as they both step closer to the side of the building and out of the main flow of foot traffic. Kuvira brushes a few flyaway strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail away from her face, displaying the thick metal rings that adorn her index, middle, and fourth fingers. The nails on the ends of her long, slender fingers are trimmed, impeccably neat and glossy, Korra needs to stop staring at her hands, immediately.

“I’m a teacher. A music teacher, specifically,” she responds, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “I like it enough, but the kids are sending me to an early grave, probably.”

“Kids? How old?”

“Oh, kindergarten to fifth—so, 5 to 10 year olds. Well, I take that back. Maybe they’re actually keeping me young.”

“Both sounds likely,” Kuvira says, looking impressed. “I give piano lessons occasionally, mostly for college students, but sometimes I’ll get the random 8 or 9 year old child of helicopter maniacs, just checking boxes off for McKalyn’s future college applications. So I get it, on a much smaller scale.”

“Yeah, that sounds depressingly familiar. Uptown charter vibes. I had two McKalyns in my class last year.” Korra knows she should probably feel at least a little bit weird, standing here talking to a semi-celebrity who she’d spent a ridiculous amount of time researching over the past few days, but there’s something about Kuvira that feels comfortable, her earlier moment of tongue-tied incoherence notwithstanding. “So...what does a concert pianist do in her free time?”

Kuvira huffs a laugh, switching her bag to her other hand, rocking a bit as she thinks. “Well, I teach, as I mentioned. Interviews, some performances at homeless shelters, prisons, things like that. The rest of the time? Composing.” She gestures vaguely toward the building they’d just exited. “Unhealthy indulgences.” Then she tilts her head at Korra, a curious smile on her lips. “But you’re a musician, too.”

Oh no. “Oh! I mean, yes and no.”

“Yes and no?” Kuvira echoes, looking intrigued and amused. “Say more.”

Korra flushes again beneath that intense gaze, brushing her hair behind her ear with a small laugh. “I play—played—piano. Kind of always wanted to return to it. Cello is my instrument, though.”

“Cello.” Kuvira says the word quietly, nodding almost to herself as she surveys Korra, as if confirming a suspicion. “That sounds right.”

“Does it?” Now it’s Korra’s turn to be intrigued, and she barely notices when a teenager nearly clips her with her skateboard as he sails by a little too fast, too caught up in the way Kuvira’s looking at her. “How so?”

Kuvira pauses, clearly deliberating. “I don’t think I can explain it,” she says finally, squinting slightly. “You just have the look, I suppose.”

“I’ll take that,” Korra says, shrugging, and there’s another pause as they both realize how long they’ve been outside, talking. As wonderful as this was, some kind of unexpectedly benevolent wish granted from the universe, Korra should probably head home before she says something stupid or just straight up turns into a pumpkin. 

“So if you—” Kuvira begins, at the same time that Korra blurts “I guess I should—” and then they both stop and laugh, Korra gesturing to Kuvira. 

“I was just going to say,” Kuvira begins, “if you’re serious about returning to piano, I _believe_ I have space on my roster for one additional student. There’s a special discount for blue-eyed music teachers who openly admit to preferring another instrument.”

Korra laughs, feeling a little bit like she’s just missed a step walking down stairs. Was this flirting? Was Kuvira _flirting_ with her? “Well, it’d be idiotic of me to turn down a bargain like that.”

Kuvira watches her a moment longer, still bearing the echo of her earlier laugh, before pulling her phone out of her pocket and tapping the screen. “What’s the best way to reach you?”

Korra recites her number, watching those elegant fingers fly over the keypad, then feels her phone vibrate as Kuvira sends a text. “Got it.”  
  


Kuvira pockets her phone again, then nods. “So, I’m going that way,” she says, pointing, and Korra tries not to make her disappointment too apparent. 

“Opposite,” she says with a rueful smile, and Kuvira glances in that direction and then back at Korra, extending a hand. Korra takes it, heat pooling in her core when their palms meet, the warmth of Kuvira’s skin contrasting distractingly with the cool metal of her rings. Kuvira’s grip is firm and sure, her tips of her fingers grazing the sensitive underside of Korra’s palm, and Korra laments, yet again, the tragically stereotypical hand kink that got her into all sorts of trouble in college. Too late do they realize that they’ve been, essentially, holding each other’s hand in silence for a beat too long, and pull away with sheepish smiles. 

“So I’ll...let you know,” Korra says finally, trying to resist the urge to flex and shake out her hand, which feels like it’s crawling in small shocks of static electricity. “When I’m ready for that lesson.”

Kuvira nods, moving her hair away from her mouth as another gust of wind blows it into her face. “Talk to you then, Korra. Have a good night.”

“You too. Kuvira.” Her name feels good to say out loud.

Kuvira gives her a small smile before turning to walk away, and Korra will absolutely not just stand here and stare at her retreating back, she does have some dignity. She makes for the direction of the train, but is unable to stop herself from turning once, just to see, to catch one final glimpse of Kuvira before she’s completely out of sight. When she does, Kuvira is looking back at her as well—an instant of such clichéd synchronicity that Korra can’t help but think of Asami’s proclamation of meet-cute—Kuvira’s small answering grin sending a flash of heat across the surface of Korra’s skin, momentarily dispelling the night’s chill, just for a moment.

When she’s at the station, standing on the platform while the train rumbles into view, she clicks open her text messages, biting her lip when she sees the new one from a 347 number.

**_How do you feel about starting with Debussy? -K_ **

Korra waits until she’s boarded the train, hopping up from her seat to offer it to a pregnant woman who waddles in behind her, giving her a grateful, tired smile. She leans against a door and types her response as the train departs, sailing through the murky wet underbelly of the city, bringing her home. 

**Sounds like we’ll be...fishing for gold.**

Korra winces as soon as the message whooshes off, suddenly gripped by panic: too opaque? She has to wait for the train to enter the next station before her phone regains service, and Kuvira’s reply comes in immediately.

**_Maybe not the translation he intended, but I give you full marks for making it your own. Your song preference has been noted._ **

Korra grins, bites her lip, looks up and checks the subway map and hopes the uneven thud of her heart isn’t as obvious as her heated face is making it feel. She should not be this worked up at such an innocuous text exchange, but that doesn’t change the fact that she is. She mentally shuffles through a few responses as the train leaves the station again, the lights shutting off momentarily, then winking back on. On the bench to her immediate left, a pair of impeccably dressed teenagers cackle at a video they’re watching together with shared headphones. 

Whatever, Korra reasons. Fuck it.

**Teacher’s pet already? I’ll have to keep this up.**

Korra opens Instagram while she waits for a response, as if trying to convince herself she’s unconcerned with Kuvira’s reaction. It doesn’t work. She’s tapping through Jinora’s story—an off-center photograph of a stoic-faced Kai on a mini golf course, stooped and holding his club like a baseball bat— when her phone buzzes.

**_I suppose I can’t stop you._ **


	2. kinderszenen, op. 15: VII. träumerei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which korra's brain does not cooperate.

“Maybe it was, like, _‘so if you_ …’re not busy right now, do you want to get a drink?’” Bolin’s eyebrows waggle suggestively at Korra for a moment before his attention snaps forward again, his expression melting back into its warm, endearing grin that makes him the most beloved adult in the building. “Li, you’re feeling the roast chicken today. I can sense it,” he declares, nodding pensively at the giggling nine year old. “Am I lying? Do I _lie?”_

“Yes I’ll have some please!” she nearly squeals, while her friends behind her dissolve into giggles. Korra just watches them with quiet amusement, unsurprised that she’s rendered totally invisible as Bolin spoons out three identically crispy-skinned golden-brown pieces on the girls’ trays. He follows them down the row to plate the rest of their lunch, returning to Korra with a shrugging smile. 

“What?”

“Nothing.” It’s weird to think about kids crushing on them, no matter how obvious, so she lets it go. “Anyway, no, I think you’re being very optimistic. But I appreciate it.”

“Oh, but actually,” Bolin concedes, nodding thoughtfully at her while he adjusts his hair net. “You both had banana puddings, right? You couldn’t have gone out for drinks; you needed to get those into the fridge.”

“I also had that thought.”

“Hey, NO TOUCHY! You’ll burn yourself.” Bolin brandishes his tongs threateningly, turns back to Korra when the gaggle of second graders moves on. “Okay, wait, so what’s the issue? She clearly likes you.”

“Yeah?” Korra’s rational brain has been telling her the same since Friday night, but in the cold light of day, four days of silence later, she’s wondering if she misremembered some things. “Okay, I thought so too, but—”

“Korra? When is the last time someone platonically mentioned the _color_ of your _eyes_ in conversation? I’ll wait.”

Korra folds her arms over her chest, shifting her jaw back and forth to suppress a smile. “I mean—maybe it was just—” she stops at the look Bolin is shooting her. “Then why hasn’t she texted?”

“Why haven’t _you?”_

“She’s probably busy, I don’t want to bother her!”

Bolin rolls his eyes with a longsuffering groan. “I’d like to remind you of how much you bullied me into _just taking initiative_ with Wei.” His eyes scan the bustling lunchroom, ever-watchful, before settling back on Korra. “Pot, kettle, methinks.”

* * *

The next day is a school holiday, both a blessing and a curse when they fall in the middle of the week, but they decide to take advantage of it by doing absolutely nothing in one of their favorite downtown cafes with the squashy couches and assorted board games. Asami and Korra claim their seats while the boys go get their drinks. Upon their return, Bolin is grinning extra wide, Mako completely red beside him.

“Ooh, thank you,” Asami says gratefully, taking her cappuccino with greedy eyes, missing Mako’s somewhat vacant expression. 

Korra looks between Bolin and Mako, curious. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Here,” Mako says quickly, handing over her coffee, shooting her a quelling look. He sits quickly, right leg bouncing under the table, and takes a slightly panicked sip from his drink. Immediately burns his tongue, by the looks of it. Asami raises an eyebrow at him.

Bolin laughs, then shoots a quick glance backwards before turning back to Mako, pitching his voice low. “Oh come on, bro, let me tell them!”

“Tell us what?” Korra asks, leaning forward. “What happened?”

Mako groans, rubbing at his face, as if trying to dispel the heat still lingering there. “Nothing! Literally, nothing. Bolin just has an overactive imagination.” He glares over at his brother, but Bolin only shakes his head despairingly, then turns to Asami and Korra.

“Theres’s a new barista here who fell _instantly_ in love with Mako. Like, full on heart eyes. Stumbling over his words and everything.”

“Oooh!” Asami gasps, delighted, while Korra angles in her seat to scan the bar with a wide grin. “Is he cute? She cute? They cute?”

Mako flaps his hands at Korra with a quiet groan. “Korra, _stop,_ you’re so obvious—”

“HE is adorable!” Bolin answers, wrapping an arm around Mako’s shoulder and pulling him close before Mako shoves him away. “Right, Mako?”

Asami joins Korra on the hunt, squinting. “The one with the nose ring?” she asks doubtfully.

_“No,_ ” Mako sighs, taking another sip of his coffee, and then grimaces slightly as he pulls the cup away from his mouth. “Not the one with the nose ring.” Korra’s eyes dart over to a figure approaching them, and she subtly nudges Asami below the table. He’s on the shorter side, slim and sort of compact looking in his all-black barista uniform, one dangly earring in his left ear, a shock of wavy dark hair spilling into his brown eyes. He meets Korra’s eyes first, wearing a nervous smile.

“Did you get his number?” she asks, winking at him and then looking back at Mako, who’s still unaware. 

Rolling his eyes, Mako shakes his head. “Believe it or not, sometimes cute guys are just being friendly, not _flirting._ Can we drop it now?” 

“Uh, hi,” the man says hesitantly, obviously embarrassed to have walked into a conversation about him, but pleased with Mako’s compliment. He meets Mako’s eyes and then drops his gaze, extending the cup in his hands. “I realized after you walked away, I made your drink wrong. Sorry. Still new at this.”

“Did you—” Mako takes the cup, now completely scarlet. “You...heard all that, didn’t you.”

The man grins, showing off a dimple in his right cheek, then works hard to suppress it, biting his lip. “I heard enough.” There’s a long pause, and then Asami clears her throat. 

“Heyyyy, why don’t we go see if they have Boggle?” she says cajolingly, raising her eyebrows at Korra and Bolin, already scooting over to stand.

Bolin claps Mako on the shoulder. “Sure, that sounds like a three person job.” Once they’re all a respectable distance away, perched by the row of shelves that hold the board games, they watch Mako and the cute barista continue their conversation. “Bless him,” Bolin says quietly, snickering to himself. “Five bucks says he screwed up Mako’s order on purpose.”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” Korra agrees, feeling her phone vibrate in her back pocket. She eases it out and flips it right side up, heart jumping when she sees who the 3 new texts are from. Asami and Bolin’s quiet chatter blends into static as she quickly thumbs open the messages.

**Hi**

**Are you off today?**

**It’s Kuvira**

Korra chews on her lip, feeling laughter bubble in her chest as she types a response. 

_Hey, yeah I am actually. What’s up?_

The next text is an image—a simple flyer advertising a free classical concert in Central Park today, beginning in an hour. Selections from Schumann, Tchaikovsky, Ravel, Rachmaninoff, and—Debussy.

**Want to come with? I just found out that one of my former students is playing today.**

**If you aren’t busy.**

_I’m not too busy. But I’m downtown so I’ll get there just as it’s starting, probably._

**I’ll find a good spot and drop a pin.**

_Sounds great! See you soon_

When Korra looks up, Asami and Bolin are watching her with identical amused expressions, and she blinks, suddenly aware of the slight ache in her cheeks. “So,” she begins, willing herself to float back to earth, “That was Kuvira.”

“You’ve been smiling at your phone for the past five minutes, so we figured,” Asami deadpans, then gestures impatiently at Korra. “Well??”

“She invited me to a piano concert in the park,” Korra says. She has to run a hand over her mouth and look back down at her phone to pull herself together. “In Central Park. Soooo, I’m bailing on you guys.”

“Totally fair,” Bolin nods, then glances back at the table. “Aww, guys, look, they’re exchanging numbers!”

* * *

It takes Korra an embarrassingly long time to find Kuvira amidst the sea of sprawling bodies on the massive lawn, crouching guiltily as she steps around picnic blankets and tote bags, half-whispering into her phone. There’s a laugh in Kuvira’s voice as she directs her, and it’s like a warm wisp of smoke traveling directly from the phone pressed against her ear, shooting through every vein, all the way down to the tips of her toes.

“So what do you see?”

“I’m, like, facing the stage. Closer to the left side. Do you see me waving?”

There’s a pause, and Korra looks around, waving her arm again, and then she finally sees Kuvira: sitting up on her knees and waving back, grinning, her phone still held against her face. “Yeah, I do.”

“Ha! There you are,” Korra says, stupidly, still speaking into the phone. She feels so stupid staying on the call as she makes a beeline for Kuvira, who’s just watching her, lips twitching, but she’s not hanging up either.

“Hi yourself.” It’s strange, watching her mouth form the words from feet away, but hearing them in a murmur this close to her ear, it’s strangely intimate. 

Kuvira is wearing that leather jacket and dark jeans again, her hair in a low slung ponytail that’s resting on one shoulder, patting the space beside her as Korra finally approaches the dark green plaid blanket she’s seated on. It’s not a big blanket. “You made it.”

“I made it.” Korra lowers herself gratefully—sitting criss cross applesauce, as she says to her kids approximately 500 times a week—accidentally bumping Kuvira’s thigh with her knee as she does. “Oops, sorry.”

Kuvira just looks over with a small smile, her eyes raking over Korra’s face for a quiet moment before she inhales, looking away. “It’s fine. I didn’t pull you away from anything important? I realize this was kind of impulsive…”

Korra shakes her head, directing her attention to the stage, where a young woman in round glasses is gingerly picking her way through one of Tchaikovsky’s Concerts in B Flat. She’s tentative, clearly nervous, but good, and Korra quickly feels some of her earlier nervous tension bleed from her shoulders, though still hyper-aware of Kuvira’s presence beside her, close enough to touch. “No, not at all.”

“Good. Uh, so,” Kuvira begins quietly, and Korra looks over at her, curious. Kuvira appears to be deep in thought, but she’s biting her lip against a smile, and then she looks up at Korra as if trying to decide something. “I brought...something.”

Korra can’t hold back a small laugh at the peculiar intensity of her gaze, eyes widening and heart thumping faster when Kuvira leans in, not stopping until her lips are inches from Korra’s ear, some escaped tendrils of hair brushing against Korra’s cheek as she speaks low. 

“What’s your stance on edibles?” It’s just so completely not what Korra is expecting to hear that she laughs again, maybe a little too loud, considering the tranquil mood of their current setting. Kuvira snorts quietly as several heads turn in their direction. She’s moved away, but only just, and when Korra meets her eyes again, she’s close enough to see the way the late afternoon sun illuminates them, glinting off the lighter shades of green within.

“Right now?” Korra manages finally, mouth dry. Kuvira tilts her head with a pointed look, like, _obviously,_ and then pulls a small tin from one of her pockets, which looks for all the world like a thing of Altoids. 

“Are you judging me?” Kuvira laughs quietly, opening the lid and raising an eyebrow at Korra. “Be honest.”

“Not at all. Gimme.” Korra crooks her fingers in Kuvira’s direction, gratified when Kuvira laughs. Then there’s the light brush of her fingers as she drops two of the small blue candies into her hand, which makes Korra feel suddenly alight with giddiness, her immediate reality setting in. She hadn’t really considered it before, but she supposed it made sense: most of the classical musicians she knew in grad school were well-schooled in the hallucinatory arts, so this was pretty mild, actually. But the fact that it’s Kuvira... “Mmm, strawberry?”

Kuvira huffs a laugh as she closes the tin and repockets it, lips pursed as she sucks on the candy. “Trusting, I see,” she teases. “This could have been anything.”

Korra snorts. “There are, like, eight hundred witnesses, criminal mastermind.”

“True.” There’s a sudden swell of applause, and Korra drags her gaze away from Kuvira’s smirk to see the performer stand and take a low bow. 

“That...wasn’t your student, right?”

Kuvira shakes her head at Korra’s sheepish look. “No, Baatar is going last.” She resettles until she’s nearly laying flat on her back, propped up only by her elbows, keeping her eyes on Korra. “So. How have you been?”

Korra looks over, hesitating, before mimicking her position. It feels good to stretch out her legs, as does the slow breeze that drifts past them, the crisp smell of autumn. Kuvira’s gaze is warm. “I’ve been good,” Korra responds honestly. “I just assigned roles for the holiday play, so that’s been exciting. It’s called _December Night, December Lights_ ,” she explains, at Kuvira’s curious look. “Celebrations allllll across the land.”

“Sounds like a must-see,” Kuvira says. “Are you happy with your cast?”

Korra laughs, shaking her hair out of her eyes. “Mostly. One of my leads is a bit of a nightmare, and her voice isn’t great, but her acting is incredible. And I’m not ashamed to say I was half afraid she would pour muscle relaxer into my coffee if I didn’t give her a part.”

There’s something so pleasing to Korra about the way Kuvira’s eyes crinkle when she laughs. “That kid actually sounds kind of awesome.”

“She’s unforgettable, I can say that.” Korra speaks quieter when another musician takes the stage, launches into a meditative Rachmaninoff sonata. “And you?” 

Kuvira’s head is swaying slightly with the music, and it’s so subtle that Korra wonders if she even knows she’s doing it. “Hmm, I can’t complain. I’ve had something of a breakthrough in—” she pauses, then looks over at Korra with a somewhat reserved smile. “Uh, something I’ve been working on.”

Korra waits, unable to stop her gaze from dropping to Kuvira’s lips for the briefest second before resettling on her eyes. “Well, that’s mysterious. Are you going to make me guess?”

“No, sorry. It’s—I’ve been composing.” She seems a little embarrassed about it, which is puzzling.

“That’s…” Korra doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. “Great? Right?” She can’t remember ever seeing a concert video of Kuvira performing any original pieces, but a musician of her stature has usually at _least_ dabbled, even if only in music school. 

Kuvira rolls her eyes a little, but the self-conscious quirk of her shoulders makes it clear that it’s directed at herself, not at Korra. “It’s been a...years-long work in progress. It’s never really been my strong suit.” She looks a little embarrassed, which—Korra knows it’s probably wrong to think this, but it makes her even more attractive, somehow: the open vulnerability in her expression, before she gets a handle on it, her face smoothing into easy confidence again. “Aside from that, just taking it easy, enjoying my time off from traveling.”

So not very busy, then. Korra slants a look at her, considering. “I thought about texting you,” she confesses, pushing out an unaffected laugh. “But I thought you’d have a packed schedule, or that I’d be bothering you or something.”

Kuvira raises an eyebrow, and they just look at each other for a moment. Korra’s chest flutters when Kuvira finally speaks. “You wouldn’t be bothering me.”

“Good to know.”

Another swell of applause startles them both, and they look to the stage to see the musician taking a bow. 

* * *

Korra means to pay more attention to the music, she really does, but it’s hard to find anything more compelling than Kuvira. 

They cycle in and out of conversation, exchanging quiet anecdotes about their lives, each new bit of information another tiny morsel to stow away and examine later. Kuvira was raised by her aunt Lin, who doesn’t take any shit but loves fiercely, and her late wife, Izumi, who was the first to introduce Kuvira to piano at four years old. Her favorite book is a dead tie between _Where the Wild Things Are_ and _Giovanni’s Room_. She was never allowed a pet as child, so the first thing she did when she moved out was adopt a cat. Green is her favorite color.

The edible isn’t overly strong, and Korra enjoys the sedate, gradual sensation of lightness filling her body, loosening her limbs, the blanket thick and slightly scratchy beneath her hands. She and Kuvira have drifted closer together and shifted positions: stretched out on their sides, facing each other. Their hands are very close together. If Korra moves her pinky two inches, it’ll come into contact with Kuvira’s. 

She doesn’t.

She watches Kuvira talk, instead. She’s telling a story about a nightmare moment from a piano recital she’d had when she was thirteen, when she’d tripped descending the stairs on the side of the stage, crashing into the ground and chipping a tooth. She tends to look down when she laughs, shoulders shaking with each punched out breath of air. It’s charming beyond belief. A few times, Kuvira glances up at Korra while speaking and her expression shifts slightly, like there’s something else she wants to say, or ask, but decides not to at the last moment. Korra runs a little hot each time, suddenly remembering their surroundings, becoming hyper-aware of how close their knees are, of the very precise angle and distance between their faces, and resettles just a tiny bit further away, careful.

If Kuvira notices, she makes no indication. And then asks Korra about herself, settling back, lips curled upwards as Korra takes her through her first disastrous cello lesson, her parents’ awful divorce when she was 17, then re-marriage six months later, some of Azula’s most memorable antics over the years. Kuvira doesn’t seem affected at all by the edible, but maybe she’s just one of those people who never show it, which tracks. Or maybe Korra just prefers to think that it’s no fault of an outside intoxicant that makes Kuvira hold her gaze longer than is strictly necessary, playfully pushing her more than once, choosing to let her hand linger on Korra’s shoulder, justifying it with a comment on the softness of her sweater. 

Korra is so caught off guard that she just blinks, wondering what level of denial they’re currently on—laugh and make a joke? Answer sincerely and give Kuvira the benefit of the doubt?—when another wave of applause alerts them to the fact that the final performance is about to begin. Kuvira gives her a fleeting, knowing smirk before she pulls her hand away and rolls over to sit up, threading her fingers through the loose hair in her face, tucking it behind her ear. Korra forgets to look away when she knows she should, so she’s stuck: watching Kuvira’s tiny, shifting microexpressions as the current musician bows and leaves, the jut of her cheekbones and faint lines at the corner of her mouth when she smiles; the way the fingers of her right hand are encased in the palm of her left when she claps, likely notable only because Korra instinctively does the opposite. She know she’s been staring too long, and should look at literally anything or anybody else—a fact that’s confirmed when Kuvira suddenly grins at the stage before smothering it, clearly trying not to laugh. A faint blush tinges her cheeks, and Korra’s stomach performs a slow arabesque at the sight.

“Feeling it?” Kuvira asks knowingly, and Korra nods, and only then is finally able to catch herself, sitting up as well.

Thankfully, she’s saved from having to account for however long she’d been openly ogling Kuvira by a stern-looking man crossing the stage to the piano, sitting down, taking a deep breath in, then letting it out.

“That’s him?” Korra asks, and Kuvira nods, her smile fond.

“That’s Baatar. I’ve never had a student more engaged, or more hard on himself. Brilliant player, though.” As if eager to prove her words, Baatar immediately launches into a thundering, breathtaking rendition of Schumann’s Davidsbündlertänze, Op. 6. There’s a particular set to Kuvira’s jaw as she watches, a sort of attentive anxiety that Korra immediately recognizes as that of a teacher observing their student, and she feels a very stupid stab of jealousy. And then she sits up and watches him play anyway, because she’s an adult, and thus capable of handling the fact that there are other people who Kuvira directs that captivating green gaze towards, aside from herself.

However much it may feel singular and sacred, when it’s on her.

They talk much less during his performance, no doubt out of respect, but also, Baatar is just very, very good. A powerful player, clearly in his element when storming through quick, rollicking pieces like Symphonic Studies, Op. 13—particularly Etude X—but then demonstrably masterful at the art of self-containment as he coaxes out the gentle power of Op. 99 of Bunte Blätter, Albumblätter III. Korra isn’t sure how much she should ascribe to raw talent versus Kuvira’s teaching, but it feels tacky to ask. And then she remembers, with a flash, the heavy disappointment in her thesis advisor’s eyes when she’d sat across from her in that freezing cold office with the uncomfortable chairs, stumbling through an explanation of her diagnosis, hoping for some measure of grace that she’d already known Columbia would not deign to give. 

And it’s as if a heavy cloud descends, like in one of those old cartoons, just hanging directly over her head, pelting her with her own private rainfall. 

Bringing her knees up to her chest, looping her arms around her shins and watching Baatar’s fingers fly across the keys, Korra remembers why she doesn’t indulge in THC too often. It really fucks with her sometimes, lowering the fragile wall that separates fact from masochistic fiction. Or maybe she can chalk this one up to whatever is so fundamentally different in her brain, whatever lurks beyond the unsteady promise of her meds, kept _just_ at bay. Sitting in Central Park with Kuvira—Kuvira fucking Beifong, world-renowned pianist and, already, the most gorgeous, mesmerizing woman Korra has ever met—this whole situation isn’t logical, it isn’t right, and it certainly won’t become anything Korra is already feverishly hoping it might. Not when she, Korra, is so aimless and ambition-less—a barely functional 20-something, overcompensating for her lack of self-discipline and life experience by teaching children all day. As if lesson planning and teaching scales and bullshitting report card grades were some sort of absolution. As if she didn’t secretly yearn for the freedom of pure creation, for the sustained drive to devote her life to the music, the way she once imagined she might.

The way Kuvira does.

She glances to her left and accidentally catches Kuvira’s eye, who’s smiling at her curiously, lips moving. Korra swallows, clenching her fingers tight, feeling more grounded at the answering strain in her knuckles.

“—you okay?”

“Yeah,” Korra responds quickly, stuttering out a forced laugh, ignoring the way Kuvira’s brows knit in concern at the response. She looks away, hot with embarrassment. “He’s incredible. You should be proud.”

Kuvira doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then finally turns away, looking back toward the stage. “Yeah, I am.”

Great. So, great.

Baatar finishes not too long after, and the air suddenly feels colder, and Korra just wants to go home and lie down in the dark. She’s bringing down the whole vibe of the day, but she can’t seem to stop herself, eager to just remove herself from the situation as quickly as possible. When the program is over, the other people around them standing, stretching, starting to clear the area, Kuvira looks over at her again.

“I think I—” Korra begins, before she can say anything, taking a breath before she can meet her gaze again. “There’s something I have to do, at home.” It’s the dumbest possible excuse, but it’s the best she can manage right now, restless with shame. 

Kuvira nods, her face neutral, and then stands, extending a hand to help Korra up. Korra grasps it without thinking, head swimming a bit as she’s gracefully lifted to her feet, Kuvira’s hand fitting so perfectly within hers. 

“Thanks for coming,” Kuvira is saying, and they’re doing that thing again, where letting go of each other’s hands is kind of impossible. Kuvira’s gaze travels Korra’s face, like she’s trying to understand the sudden tonal shift, but resigned to her ignorance, if need be. “This was...fun.”

“Me too. I mean, I had fun too.” Korra finally pulls her hand away, and wonders with quiet despair if she’ll ever hear from Kuvira again. “Tell Baatar he did a great job.”

Kuvira raises an eyebrow, but then decides it must be a joke, from the way a corner of her mouth lifts slightly, hesitant. “Will do?” She makes a small movement, as if she’s thinking of maybe giving Korra a hug, then thinking better of it, considering Korra’s demeanor. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “Can I—” she pauses, a small line appearing between her eyebrows, then she just nods, her face smoothing out again. “I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” Korra responds, nodding too, feeling stupid and kind of numb. “Definitely.”

* * *

When Korra gets home, she doesn’t let herself think, just strips off her clothes and falls into bed, burrowing beneath the covers, pulling a pillow on top of her head. The sun is only beginning to make its slow descent. She sleeps for three hours and wakes up groggy and miserable. Unsurprisingly, when she checks her phone, there are zero new texts. 

  
She glares at the screen until it goes back to sleep, plunging the room back into darkness. Well, what did she expect? She toys with the idea of calling and crying to Asami, but she can already hear her incredulous reply, demanding to know why Korra is hell-bent on self-sabotage. It's a great question.   
  


More sleep beckons, but she rolls out of bed, flicking on the light and entering a staring contest with her cello case instead, propped up against her dresser. It's been a month since she's played. No, two months. It's probably horribly out of tune. And, ugh, cleaning the strings of her bow is such a _project_...

Tomorrow is another day, and she needs to figure out her lesson plans, anyway. She passes the case, moving into the living room to grab her school bag and settle onto the couch. Opens her laptop. And does _not_ think about Kuvira.


	3. miroirs: alborada del gracioso, m. 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which I do a bit of retconning to make sokka and zuko korra's parents because I am GOD and I do WHAT I WANT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to finish and post this much sooner, but alas! life. anyway, here we are now. I deeply appreciate all of your lovely comments and for indulging me in this. I'm thinking this will wrap up in two more chapters but don't quote me on that or on literally anything else.
> 
> many thanks to jacques rouvier's youtube tutorial on ravel (the chapter title, y'all) which I thoroughly enjoyed as I did my research/french practice, and to the inimitable creators of [title of show], one of my favorite comfort musicals and the inspiration for azula's wholly inappropriate outburst. and honestly I do feel like, fandom-wise, I'd rather be 9 people's favorite thing than 100 people's ninth favorite thing, so

Korra realizes she left her lunch at home the second the subway doors close.

Then she accidentally splashes through a puddle right after emerging from the underground, leaving her left ankle wet and cold. And the good copy machine in the teacher’s lounge is jammed again, as if exacting divine punishment for her lack of foresight this morning. After yanking her copies from the inferior machine, praying that the stack doesn’t contain any illegible ink blots, she jogs back down to the first floor and skids quietly into Senna's second grade classroom, where the ten minute faculty Morning Meeting started two minutes ago.

Asami shoots Korra a smirk as she sends Tenzin a sheepish smile of apology, sliding into the desk beside her. “Happy Monday!” she whispers sarcastically, raising her iced coffee in cheers. 

“Yeah, exactly.” Korra exhales, swiping Asami’s daily agenda, having forgotten to pick up her own on her way in. Lunch duty today and tomorrow, _wonderful_. She could have used those prep periods, but at least that means she can hang with Bolin in between cajoling picky eaters to spoon down a few calories and break apart the occasional tussle over Shopkins.

Up front, Tenzin is gamely attempting to get everyone excited about the annual mid-year fundraiser. 

“This year’s theme, voted on by our wonderful PTA, will be Starry Night,” he says, and everyone turns when Bumi chortles from his usual corner, his seat tipped to balance on the back legs, arms crossed over his wide chest.

“Stars? For the holidays? Groundbreaking.”

“Yes, _thank_ you, Bumi,” Tenzin says sharply, over the sound of random titters, even Kya’s sudden, unconvincing cough. “You might recall they’re stretched rather thin this year, after that...unfortunate...election fiasco.”

There’s a long, pregnant pause, in which the ringing, indignant shouts of disgraced ex-PTA president Raiko seem to echo. 

“Good old Upper East Side,” Asami grumbles quietly, and Korra scoffs in agreement, wishing for coffee, an Advil, and some vodka; preferably in that order.

“But we are confident that we’ll have an excellent turnout this year,” Tenzin continues, “Especially as it will lead up so nicely to our holiday musical.” He nods meaningfully at Korra, and she pushes out an unwilling smile as all the eyes in the room swivel around to her. “I had the pleasure of stopping in to one of last week’s rehearsals, and it’s coming along swimmingly.” His mustache twitches once, and Korra has to suppress a groan. Swimmingly, of course. Of course he made a random visit at the very moment that Haru lost control of his bladder during his solo, momentarily stalling rehearsal as she had to send Ming to fetch the janitor during “Light the Kinara for Kwanzaa” so he could clean the stage. She nods, projecting what she hopes is properly deferential gratitude.

“Thanks, Tenzin.” Korra pretends not to hear Asami’s quiet snicker.

“Second marking period final grades are due in two weeks, as a reminder,” he continues, then glances down at the agenda. “And Bumi, congratulations on another fantastic round of Spelling Bee victories.” Bumi raises his fists above his head and shakes them in victory at the momentary swell of polite, scattered applause. 

“We’ll crush those Red Lotus ninnies into the dirt at Semi-finals, just watch!”

“Bumi, they’re children,” Kya reminds him tiredly.

“And??”

“Thank you, Bumi,” Tenzin repeats, frowning, at which point the first bell rings, signaling the start of another day. “Alright, well, have a good day, everyone.”

Asami and Korra’s classrooms are at the end of the long, main hallway, Asami’s around the corner and curled into the heart of the right wing; Korra’s up the left-side staircase, and directly across the hall from where the 5th grade girls take Health. Which means they can at least share the length of the hallway walk together, before needing to rush in opposite directions to prepare for the onslaught of children. Today, Asami sends Korra a sideways glance, then sighs quietly. Pointedly.

_“Hi, Korra. How was your weekend?”_ Korra asks mockingly, avoiding her gaze. “See? It’s easy. You try.”

_“Hi,_ yes, hi.” Asami clutches her arm and pulls her close in brief, sincere apology, as much as she can while they walk. “But I _know_ you, and it’s been almost a week, and you just look...so forlorn.”

“Forlorn.”

“I know you’re feeling...embarrassed? I think? But I really don’t believe you’ve ruined this forever.”

Korra feels a stab of impatience, or maybe it’s something more like jealousy, which is ugly, so she tries not to indulge it. “So you’ve said.”

“I meant it!” They’re nearly at the end of the corridor, and Korra can hear the distant, stampeding thuds of tiny feet as they’re led up the stairs from before-school care by Mako and Bolin. “Gotta go. Will you _consider_ texting her today?”

“I will consider it.”

* * *

She doesn’t need to consider it for long, because right after seeing off her sixth period third grade class, she checks her phone and notices two texts from Kuvira. Her heart contracts with a sudden and hopeful ache, but then it’s time to welcome in her seventh period first graders, and by the time she finally makes it to the end of the day, her nerves are totally jangled.

There’s a third message, now, which is a link.

**Hi**

**This is a little silly, but I saw it and thought of you**

[The link](https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=340500846795232) takes Korra to a video (on Facebook, of all places) of a very simple line drawing animation of a person on a bicycle—no, sled—traversing a very long, meandering line that mimics the bumps, loops, and sudden drops of Beethoven’s Fifth, which plays in the background. It’s masterfully done, and Korra can feel her smile growing wider and wider as she watches. 

The video is four minutes, fourteen seconds long. Korra makes it to minute two before she has to hit pause to send a text back.

_I’m a little obsessed with this._

She navigates back to the video, chewing her lip, a shy, unsteady happiness fluttering in her chest. But Kuvira doesn’t answer in the next two minutes and fourteen seconds, so she finishes watching the video and then clicks back into her inbox, staring at the small blocks of text, wondering if somehow, the hourish gap between Kuvira’s original message and Korra’s response was her final mistake.

“Grow up,” she mutters to herself, setting down her phone and beginning to tidy up the classroom. There’s an after-school Professional Development session that begins in about twenty minutes, and she’s planning on staying for a bit after that to go over plans for the following day. Life goes on, even if whatever this thing is won’t. She finishes stacking the chairs with five minutes to spare, and checks her phone again as she turns off the lights, closes the door. One new text.

**I’m glad you enjoyed it.**

Korra chews on her relieved grin, then glances up and around. The hallway is mostly empty, but the few members of staff and one janitor in her immediate vicinity are paying her no mind. She hustles nonetheless to the library, where everyone is slowly trickling in, and selects the table in the back where she, Asami, Bolin, and Mako typically sit during PDs. She’s the first one there, so she thankfully clicks her phone back open, biting her lower lip as her thumbs hover momentarily over the keyboard. 

_I guess I owe you an apology_

Korra hesitates, watching Kuvira’s text bubble pop up, then vanish. The library is growing louder, and soon she’ll have to pay attention, which means she needs to be quick about this. The pressure is terrifying, but welcome. She can’t afford to mince words now, not with this unexpected opening.

_I freak out a little sometimes? It’s not personal, it’s my brain. I hope I didn’t offend you_

_I really liked spending time with you though._

_And would like to do it again, if I haven’t totally spooked you_

_Which I would understand_

“We’ll get started in a few minutes, once everyone is here,” Tenzin is saying now, and then Asami’s shooting her a questioning look as she sits down, and Mako and Bolin are still deep in conversation about something as they take their seats too. Korra shakes her phone meaningfully in Asami’s direction with a hopeful smirk, catching a glimpse of her silent, open-mouthed glee in response before it vibrates in her hand.

**I get it. And I appreciate the apology, but it’s unnecessary. I had a great time with you too.**

“If everyone could take a seat, we can begin,” Tenzin says loudly, and Korra works hard to make her face not do whatever it’s doing, because it’s uncomfortably warm. 

**I’m not easily spooked**

**:)**

For whatever reason, Kuvira’s decidedly old school emoticon usage, in lieu of an emoji, sends another rush of blazing warmth through Korra. She unthinkingly double taps the message to send a ‘love’ reaction, then types her next message while doing her best to train her eyes ahead to the speaker who’s introducing herself now, her phone now in her lap.

_That’s great to hear, because I think it’s time to schedule my first lesson. I’ll have to text you later, in a staff meeting._

**Talk soon, Korra.**

* * *

When Kuvira opens the door of her TriBeCa brownstone five days later, she’s wearing an oversized maroon sweater, square rimmed glasses, and a smile that takes Korra’s breath away.

“Hi,” she says, and Korra’s not sure if it’s the positioning of her arms as she gestures Korra inside, or maybe the particular angle of the sun and the way its midday rays are hitting Kuvira’s shiny dark hair, or perhaps just the heady, bubbling feeling that threatens to launch Korra upwards to sail into the clouds—whatever _it_ is sends Korra straight into Kuvira’s arms for a hug that she returns wholeheartedly, pulling Korra close, and time stops as they just stand there, warm in each other’s embrace. 

“Hi,” Korra responds, finally, trying not to be too obvious about taking a second, deeper whiff of Kuvira’s hair. Jasmine?

Kuvira chuckles a bit as she pulls away, and her eyes are glowing when she steps back and gives Korra a mockingly stern once over. “You’re going to be _that_ kind of student, huh.”

Korra raises her eyebrows and shakes her head, the picture of innocence, trying to quell whatever is happening in the pit of her stomach. “I have no idea what kind of student I am, actually.”

“Sure.” Kuvira winks, then tilts her head backwards, indicating for Korra to follow. “So, welcome.” She leads Korra deeper into the wide entryway, down the hallway and past a sprawling kitchen gleaming with metal and marble, through a dining room featuring a broad, wooden table that’s mostly covered in sheet music—much of it handwritten, Korra notes—and into what must be the living room. It’s huge and, like the rest of the apartment Korra’s seen so far, flooded with light that pours in from the enormous windows, a boon for Kuvira’s plants, of which there are...many.

“Green thumb, too?”

Kuvira stands next to Korra as she takes in the ceramic pots of various sizes, bearing all manner of trailing light green and dark green and purplish leaves and vines and mini-trees, vibrant markers in an otherwise monochrome space: all of Kuvira’s furniture is a different shade of grey or beige, with the obvious exception of the black grand piano facing the eastern facing windows, and their view of the river.

“I lost control,” Kuvira admits with a sigh, reaching out to minutely adjust a pothos pot on a windowsill, rotating it clockwise. “I impulse bought this one about two years ago, and then another one to keep it company, and now I just can’t stop.”

“There are worse addictions,” Korra says, startling when something small and soft brushes against her shins. “Oh, hello.”

“Colossus, this is Korra,” Kuvira introduces, stooping to scratch the preening black cat behind its ears. Then she frowns, looking up at Korra questioningly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to ask—you’re not allergic, are you?”

“Deathly, actually.” Korra lowers herself to pet the cat too, grinning at Kuvira’s expression of worry, quickly replaced by bemusement. The cat is notably more friendly than others Korra has met, and its purr is about as loud as an electric saw as she strokes the underside of its chin. “I don’t usually love cats,” she says quietly, as it gazes solemnly up at Korra, its eyes seemingly too big for its face, “But you seem cool.” After a beat of silence, Korra catches Kuvira watching her with a little smile. Kuvira looks a tiny bit embarrassed at being caught, like she didn’t realize she was doing it until Korra noticed, but she moves past it by standing, gesturing to the piano.

“Shall we?”

“Let’s do it.” Despite her confident tone, Korra’s about ready to vibrate out of her skin with nerves by the time she’s seated on the bench, Kuvira standing right beside the piano, apparently ready to just...watch her play. For one wild, hysterical second she wonders how the hell to backpedal, return to petting the pretty cat while surrounded by indoor foliage. That was nice, and not stressful in the slightest.

“Show me what you got,” Kuvira commands, bursting that unlikely bubble, and Korra levels her a half curious, half judgmental glance before looking back down at the keys, making deliberations in her head. 

“Is this really your teaching style? ‘Show me what you got?’”

“My style is adaptable,” Kuvira answers lightly, biting her lip against a laugh when Korra snorts.

“Alright, um.” She begins plucking out a halting C flat arpeggio, then pauses. “I should start with a warmup, right?”

“If you like,” Kuvira murmurs, her eyes on Korra’s hands. “Just do what you feel, I want to see how you play.”

Great, not terrifying at all. Korra blows out a breath of air and continues, trying to ignore the weight of Kuvira’s stare as she relaxes into her stance, repeating the arpeggio with a little bit more confidence.

“Straighten your back,” Kuvira says suddenly, and Korra stops, giving her a startled glance, rising to sit a bit taller on the stool. Kuvira narrows her eyes, gesturing to the keys with her head. “No, keep playing. Just don’t hunch.”

Ah. Korra flushes a bit, but continues, now hyper-aware of Kuvira’s critical eye. Any half-formed notions she might have had about these lessons being low key are quickly banished. After completing a few more repetitions, Korra switches to C major, which she plays with more fluidity. Kuvira notices.

“You prefer major?”

“It feels better to my hands, I don’t know,” Korra says with a half shrug. The acoustics in this room are excellent—like a mini concert hall, which makes sense. 

“Now try a B minor. Just your right hand.” Kuvira actually leans in this time, as Korra readjusts her fingers and begins to play. Kuvira’s gaze is focused and coolly intense, and then she’s slowly circling around the back of the stool where Korra sits, coming to stand on the other side of the piano. “Now left.”

Korra obeys immediately, a little embarrassed to discover a slight ache in her arms already. 

“Stop.” Kuvira is behind her again, and Korra just rests the tips of her fingers on the keys, heart thumping. “Posture,” Kuvira reminds her, and then there’s a small prod in the center of her back, encouraging her to straighten her spine. “And your arms—may I?”

“Yeah,” Korra says, nodding, having no clue what she’s giving permission for. And then Kuvira’s fingertips are on the underside of her elbows, opening them gently, widening the positioning of her arms. The touch is so light and unexpected and frustratingly muted beneath the thick sleeves of her sweater that all she can do is breathe, “oh,” and hope Kuvira can’t hear the exact, pathetic shape of her yearning within the quiet syllable.

“More like this,” Kuvira directs, oblivious, then brings her hands back, though she doesn’t move. “Good. Again.”

Korra takes a breath, feeling Kuvira’s warm, steady presence right at her back, and continues to play.

* * *

The damp and bitingly cold weeks of early winter pass that way: Korra returning to Kuvira’s sleek, sunlit apartment each Saturday or Sunday afternoon, slipping out of her shoes and coat at the door, Colossus winding her slow, methodical way around Korra’s ankles, trilling plaintively until Korra bends to scritch her ears and neck. And Kuvira is, more often than not, in some roomy cableknit sweater that looks impossibly soft to touch, and so Korra does, reveling in this part the most—the part where’s able to clutch Kuvira close, her eyes falling shut as melts into the slow hug, hoping Kuvira can’t feel the sudden hammering of her heart. It’s always only momentary, a sweet hello, then a return to business, with Kuvira leading the way to the piano.

Korra learns, very quickly, that Kuvira is a precise and exacting teacher. 

She’s never mean or, truthfully, even that _stern_ , per se, but there’s a quiet hum of power coiled beneath every instruction, every movement she makes as she examines Korra’s form, her face smooth, but for the occasional narrowing of her eyes, the set of her mouth. Her praise is rare and thus precious; Korra hoards it like a lusty dragon guarding its gold, and before she knows it, she’s achieving a singular level of focus as she plays that she hasn’t felt in...years. The rush of recognition as a song finally _clicks_ , flowing through her every vein, it’s steady beat pulsing in her temples, her wrists, her silently tapping right foot. And then, the slow, dignified agony and wonder of making her way into a new piece, putting her sight-reading to the test, the ticking metronome applying a steady pressure, keeping her in time. 

(It’s enough to compel Korra to finally pull her cello out of hiding, tuning, adjusting, cleaning until she’s placing her bow to the strings, reorienting herself with a slow allegro. And then another. And another.)

Kuvira does not often approach the bench herself, which makes each instance that she does a rare gift. It’s a little bit overwhelming, watching a world-class musician sit down to play—in her own home, nonetheless, in her most comfortable, relaxed element. Korra tries hard not to stare—she’s supposed to be watching her hands and finger placement over the tricky chords, right, because the third movement of this particular sonata just keeps kicking her ass, but Kuvira is too radiant to look away from. She plays as if she might perish were she to stop, every long line of her body trained into graceful submission, and then quick as a switch, she’s glancing over at Korra to talk through her positioning, the depth and speed of the key shifts, demonstrating as she speaks. If she notices Korra’s fluster, the only hint is the slight curl of her lip, which Korra can’t even be sure she isn’t imagining. 

Imagining...is Korra imagining, then, the way Kuvira’s hand lingers on Korra’s lower back a bit longer each time, as she pulls away from their hugs? And when the lessons come to an end and she settles onto the couch beside Kuvira, talking about everything and nothing, is she imagining the way Kuvira’s leg sometimes—usually—rests against hers? The slow brush of fingertips as Kuvira hands her a glass of wine, or the way her eyes will drop to Korra’s mouth when she’s speaking, her own lips bearing a small, amused smile? 

The truth is, Korra is equal amounts eager and terrified to cross the line, to make her feelings plain, when she isn’t 100% certain that Kuvira reciprocates them. Who is to say that she doesn’t simply see Korra as a cute new friend and protege, of sorts? Or even worse, a new _project_ , someone to pity and attempt to fix, the gaps in their respective personal and professional accomplishments being as wide as they are? It’s a thought that Korra does her best not to dwell on, but it’s there, a low, persistent hum—staying her hand when it itches to bridge the divide to rest on Kuvira’s thigh, stopping her from tilting her head just so and leaning in when they’re already in each other’s arms...no, no. Not now. Not yet. And maybe, not ever. 

Her restraint doesn’t stop her from dreaming, though. In fact, it makes the longing that much richer, somehow—fuller, the shimmering mirage all the more beautiful for her unending thirst. 

Like the day that Kuvira, draped in a long, striped cardigan, her hair tossed up into the messiest bun Korra’s ever seen it in, walks Korra through a particularly tricky Ravel, explaining the origins of the piece. She’s a true nerd, Korra has learned, to her unending delight—depending on the piece, she’ll sometimes subconsciously switch into the language of the composer, attempting, Korra knows, to paint a more complete portrait, growing adorably frustrated when Korra inevitably needs a translation.

“That defeats the purpose,” Kuvira protests, shaking her head. “Just hear it and _feel_ it.” She plucks out a few of the chords again, nodding at Korra, willing her to understand. “This isn’t what a _clown_ sounds like, not as we think of it—” she winces a tiny bit as she continues to play, tipping her head from right to left, considering. “Alors le bouffon, c’est pas tout à fait... _Gracioso_ is moreso...a jester, from Spanish comedy of the 16th century. Anyway, it’s very fast, but still measured. Controlled. Listen.”

So Korra listens, and watches, and when it’s her turn to play, it sounds completely off.

“What is _happening?”_ she complains, glaring at the troublesome measures on the page in front of her, then down at the silent, inscrutable keys. “Why does this sound so wrong?”

“You have to hit these—” Kuvira demonstrates, settling herself closer to Korra, striking the keys quickly, “like this. Short, and dry.” She watches Korra try again, shakes her head. “Too loose. You need to stiffen up for this one.” And then she slides her fingers down Korra’s forearm, willing it into immediate, tensed obedience. “Exactly, like that.”

Korra swallows, her breath suddenly short, avoiding Kuvira’s gaze. “Stiff, got it.”

“And your hand,” Kuvira continues, resting her palm against the back of Korra’s hand, her fingers gently repositioning Korra’s. “Like this. Imagine there’s no break between your entire forearm and your hand, just let it move as one. Every time you play this chord, it’s like you’re just turning it on an axis”—she pauses to demonstrate again—“like this.”

This time, Korra’s attempt sounds much closer to Kuvira’s, and she bites her lip at the sheer rush of pleasure, so laughably disproportionate to this small victory, but she aches to just turn and press a kiss to Kuvira’s cheek all the same. She doesn’t, though. She remains measured. Controlled.

Kuvira nods, her eyes narrowed as she watches Korra play, tucking a few loosened tendrils of hair behind her ear. “That’s better. Again.”

* * *

**Asalami Sato:** My dad is attempting to fry the turkey this year. If the house goes up in flames and I die a horrific death, someone please erase my browser history

**BOLIN BOLIN BOLIN!:** alarming but more importantly, WHAT is in your browser history

**Asalami Sato:** I guess you’ll find out in a few hours

**Mako:** tell your dad to call me

**Korra:** Too bad Zhu Li’s a veg

**Asalami Sato:** -___- 

**Asalami Sato:** He offered to fry “a drumstick of tofurkey, or whatever” for her

**Mako:** does it...work like that?

Asalami Sato: NO IT DOESN’T MAKO. 

**BOLIN BOLIN BOLIN:** wait so you guys didn’t eat yet

**Korra:** don’t do this

**BOLIN BOLIN BOLIN:** I think I’m on plate #4

**Mako:** he’s not kidding

**Asalami Sato:** of what, pizza????? Fuck off

**Korra:** Asami’s hangry

**Mako:** she’s always hangry

**BOLIN BOLIN BOLIN:** hey, we got boston market this year!

**BOLIN BOLIN BOLIN:** nothing but class, right bro

**Korra:** I’ve been cheating and snacking all day, I have no shame

**Mako:** I’m always so surprised that your dad doesn’t have dinner on the table at exactly 4 pm sharp

**Mako:** I mean...you know the dad I mean

**Korra:** yeah he would, but he’s married to an agent of chaos who can barely make a hot pocket without setting off the smoke alarm, so they kind of break even

**BOLIN BOLIN BOLIN:** oh man I miss sokka so much tell him I say hi!!! 

**Korra:** lol I will

**Asalami Sato:** I would literally murder a man with my bare hands for a hot pocket rn

* * *

_Hey there_

**Hi**

**Well, it’s over**

_That bad?_

**Holidays generally aren’t my favorite since Izumi. Though it is nice to spend time with Lin.**

Yeah, I get it. 

**Tell me a story from your day, I could use a distraction.**

_A story...well my dad and his sister get into a fight every year, without fail, about some childhood memory that they remember differently, but it’s a lot to type. Can I call you?_

**Sure**

When Kuvira answers, she looks a little startled, combing her fingers through her hair with one hand as she holds the phone aloft in the other. Korra can’t help her completely goofy grin at the sight, though she does feel a tiniest twinge of guilt.

“So _call_ means Facetime now?” Kuvira asks, lips now twitching against a smile, though she still looks a tiny bit annoyed as she settles back against a couch, it looks like. The room around her is mostly dark, save for a lamp right beside her.

“Sorry, I immediately realized I should have clarified,” Korra says, pulling her legs up to cross them beneath her on her bed, a slow warmth spreading beneath her skin as she watches Kuvira roll her eyes, still clearly caught off guard by having to suddenly show her face. Something about the naked vulnerability on her face has Korra’s next words tumbling from her lips before she can rein them in. “You look gorgeous, as always, so stop stressing about it.”

“I—” Kuvira begins, then she hears what Korra’s just said, evidently, and her eyes flick to her phone camera for a second before she smiles and drops her head with a surprised chuckle. “Oh, um. Thank you.”

Korra feels such a powerful rush of affection that she has to bite her lips into her mouth and just breathe for a second. “It’s true,” she says breezily a moment later, mildly amused when Kuvira finally looks back up at the phone, her face a little pink. Did no one ever tell her how beautiful she was? A fucking crime. “Anyway, you asked for a story.”

‘Yes,” Kuvira says immediately, nodding with a small measure of relief. “Tell me.”

So Korra does, unspooling the scene from earlier in the evening when her aunt Katara had disputed her dad’s account of the time they’d gone on a covert mission to find out who’d been leaving a small stack of Oreo cookies on Katara’s windowsill every full moon when they were ten and eleven years old. If she exaggerates a few details here and there, Korra reasons that she can be forgiven, especially when Kuvira’s delighted, incredulous laugh looks and sounds like _that_. 

“Your family sounds fun,” Kuvira says much later, her smile a touch wistful. “What are they doing now? Am I keeping you?”

Korra scoffs, shaking her head. “Please, they’re old, they’re all asleep. Plus we’re supposed to go hiking in the morning.”

“I’m impressed. And didn’t you tell me you hated hiking?” 

“I hate the _term_ hiking. It’s just walking! I feel very apathetic towards walking. But the needle strays to ‘NOT in favor of’ when it’s happening at eight in the morning.”

Kuvira grimaces in sympathy, though also visibly suppressing a laugh. “You poor, poor thing.”

“Well I appreciate your sympathy, even if it isn’t sincere.”

“Family tradition? Post-Thanksgiving torture?”

Korra laughs, pointing accusingly at Kuvira’s smug expression that fills her phone’s screen. “See, you get it! And yes, tradition. The only thing that somewhat helps is my dad—Zuko dad, not Sokka dad—complains as much as I do.” 

“Solidarity is important.” Kuvira cuts herself off with a yawn, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and looking a little bashful when she lowers it. “Sorry.”

“Wow, am I really that boring?”

Kuvira snorts, shakes her head. “I could never be bored by you.” 

Korra feels herself flush, and when Kuvira’s smile grows at the sight, she has to look away for a second, recognizing the irony.

“Oh, so you can dish it out, but you can’t take it?” Kuvira teases, her voice suddenly sounding deeper, setting off a sudden flare of heat in Korra’s gut. When Korra meets her gaze (sort of, whatever) through the phone again, they’re both quiet for several moments, just watching each other.

“It’s really good to see you,” Korra tells her finally, because she has to say something, and she wishes Kuvira was right in front of her so badly she feels a little short of breath.

Kuvira’s smile softens, a slow, unfurling surrender. “It’s good to see you, too.”

* * *

Post-Thanksgiving, the remaining days of the year slide away like water slipping down a drain, the city first dusted with snow, then doused in it. It’s down to the wire for the winter fundraiser and holiday show both, which sets loose a nervous, excited energy up and down the white and silver paper snowflake-decorated hallways of Air Temple. The kids, giddy for the oncoming festivities and lengthy winter break, grow more boisterous by the day.

“Okay, come on guys, here are your notes again,” Korra calls loudly, plunking the tenor note and humming it loudly, nodding as Ren follows in suit. “Yes! Keep singing that, Ren, great job.” Quick glance at the clock: seven minutes left, which means five minutes until she has to let them start to pack up their things.

_“Azulaaa,”_ she sings as she hits the alto key and hums it meaningfully at the smirking girl, who obeys—without complaint, to Korra’s surprise—singing her name on the same key and holding it.

Korra’s about to breathe a sigh of relief and give Jin her soprano note, a little desperate to hear the three of them _finally_ harmonize this line correctly, when Azula turns to Ren and sings, _“Your note can suck my note, cuz your note is my note’s biiiiiitch!”_

The one clear thought Korra has before the ear-splitting detonation of screaming laughter and jeers is how much she can’t _wait_ to tell Kuvira about this.

* * *

Her reaction doesn’t disappoint. Korra’s never actually seen her laugh this hard, and it’s immensely gratifying. 

“Oh, my god,” Kuvira wheezes, actually wiping away a tear as she settles down. “The more you tell me about this kid the more I love her.”

Korra releases a loud exhalation of laughter, reaching forward to grab her recently refilled glass of wine and take a sip. “Well feel free to come cover that class, anytime.” Outside the thick curtains, the sky is its usual early evening black, speckled with a gently falling mix of snow and rain. Inside, Colossus is curled up in Korra’s lap, asleep. Korra strokes her fur gently as she speaks. “Actually, I feel like you two would get along, somehow.”

“Hmm.” Kuvira shoots Korra a suspicious look, tucking one leg beneath her as she turns more fully in Korra’s direction. She brushes a few pieces of hair out of her face and tucks them behind her ear, then absentmindedly brings her long braid to rest over her shoulder. “I don’t think that’s a compliment, but I’m choosing to take it as one.” She keeps her eyes on Korra as she takes a sip in turn, playful, but she doesn’t look away as she lowers her glass, her expression turning speculative.

“What is it,” Korra intones, curious and wary.

“Can I ask you something?”

Jesus, her eyes are so green. Sparkling with clarity, but as fathomless as the ocean. Korra swallows, her heartbeat going wonky for a second. “Yeah, shoot.”

“Would you…” Kuvira pauses, inclining her head slightly, as if trying to select her next words carefully. “I mean, _will_ you...play? For me?”

Korra twists her head to the side minutely, processing the question and coming up confused. “Play? Again, now?” That day’s lesson had been a reintroduction to Debussy—and as promised, getting reacquainted with Poissons d’or. 

Kuvira interprets her glance over to the piano correctly and laughs softly, reaching out to close her hand around Korra’s wrist, effectively shorting out her brain. “No, no, I meant—the cello. I’d love to hear you play. If you’re comfortable with that.”

“Oh,” Korra breathes, stunned. Kuvira’s thumb brushes the delicate skin that covers her pulse, which pounds and pounds as Korra opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “I haven’t played for anyone since I…” 

Dropped out, she doesn’t say.

Something about the way Kuvira’s brows pinch, just the tiniest bit, tells Korra she knows, she understands the significance of her request. But she’s asking anyway. 

And despite her knee-jerk reaction—which, in the past few years, when confronted with anything mildly related to her music, has calcified into embarrassed deflection—Korra finds that she actually, really, really wants to share this part of herself with Kuvira. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost a good amount of the shame that accompanied each of these lessons. Whether it’s because of her own hunger to fall in love with music again, the wonderful, maddening challenge of sharpening her own skills on the piano, or maybe it was just _Kuvira_ , a consistent and patient teacher who did not rest until she’d shone a spotlight on levels of resilience and excellence that Korra didn’t even know she possessed—whatever the reason, this feels good. More than that, it feels right.

“That was presumptuous of me—” Kuvira begins, misinterpreting Korra’s silence. 

Simultaneously, Korra expels in a rush of breath, “Yeah, I’d love to,” and then they both fall silent, staring at each other in cautious amusement. Kuvira breaks the silence.

“What?”

“I said, I’d love to,” Korra repeats, grinning. “It’s about time I returned the favor, right?”

Kuvira chuckles a bit, finally pulling her hand away from Korra’s arm to playfully push at her shoulder. “Yeah, exactly.” And then her smile freezes, breath hitching when Korra instinctively grabs her hand, watching closely as Korra turns it over in her palm, examining her fingers.

“What happened here?” Korra asks, dragging the tip of her index finger down the second knuckle of Kuvira’s, where a raised scar bisects the otherwise flawless skin. She doesn’t understand what’s gotten into her to make her initiate such an intimate touch, but Kuvira hasn’t run screaming yet, and it’s an unbelievable relief to finally give in to an impulse, just once. 

Kuvira scoots a bit closer, her knee bumping Korra’s thigh as she leans in with a small laugh of remembrance. “I found a razor blade when I was two, I think,” she says. “There was a ton of blood. It feels like I remember it, but it’s probably just the many retellings that I’ve internalized.” She looks down at where Korra’s tracing it with her thumb, as if trying to soothe the old hurt. “Apparently Izumi cried when she found me. She used to hate when Lin told that story.”

“Well,” Korra reasons, frowning. “It’s not a very cheerful one, to be fair.”

“My aunt has a strange sense of humor,” Kuvira retorts, shaking her head. Another easy silence spreads between them as Colossus stirs and then resettles, blinking slowly up at Kuvira before her eyes close again. 

Korra looks up from where she’s now just cradling Kuvira’s hand, her mouth going dry when she finds Kuvira’s eyes already on her. All the air in the room seems to shudder to a standstill when Kuvira’s gaze drops to Korra’s mouth before rising again, and Korra is scarcely aware of dragging her nails gently across the center of Kuvira’s palm until she hears the resulting shuddery little gasp, at which point all of her nerve endings blaze to life and she has to lean in a bit further and—

Kuvira’s phone vibrates on the table, the jarring sound startling them both and waking up Colossus, who mews, irritated, before leaping gently off Korra’s lap and trotting out of the room, seemingly to find a more peaceful place to continue her nap. Kuvira’s eyes close for a second as she exhales slowly through her nose, then she opens them to give Korra a small, aggrieved smile before sliding her hand out of Korra’s grasp to pick it up. She reads the caller ID, then glances at Korra apologetically as she rises to stand, mouthing _my manager_ and rolling her eyes. Korra nods, shooing her away, only letting her head fall back on the couch when Kuvira’s gone, her professional voice trailing faintly.

Kuvira isn’t gone for an egregiously long period of time, but it is long enough for Korra to begin to feel a little awkward sitting there alone. Just as she drains her glass and stands, stretching, wondering about the best way to make an inconspicuous exit, Kuvira reenters the room, her face creased in regret.

“I’m sorry—last minute interview thing came through and I have to—” she cuts herself off as her phone buzzes again, growls a bit under her breath as she jabs the side button to silence it momentarily. Austria, Korra guesses—Kuvira is about to fly there for the rest of December, doing a few concerts around the country. “This is annoying, but I have to—”

“Don’t worry about it. Seriously.” Korra smiles, a little touched at Kuvira’s obvious concern, doing her best to hide her own disappointment. This was, technically, their last time seeing each other before Kuvira’s trip, and Korra hadn’t realized how much she’d been banking on this being...something, until this very moment, as it's being snatched away. “I’ll...we’ll talk soon, right?”

“Yes, of course.” Kuvira watches her uncertainly for a moment, then curses when her phone rings again.

“I can let myself out, hotshot,” Korra jokes, pulling her in for a brief, tight hug, dropping a kiss onto her cheek before she can second guess herself. Kuvira’s skin is soft and she smells incredible and she looks back at Korra with something akin to fond agony before she’s forced to answer her insistently vibrating phone. “Yes, I’m here,” she intones.

_Bye,_ Korra mouths, squeezing her hand, and Kuvira squeezes back, mouthing _I’m sorry_ once more, and then she’s gone, disappearing into the dining room. It’s Colossus who rejoins Korra in the entryway as she laces herself into her boots, sitting back on her haunches and blinking up at Korra with thoughtful melancholy.

“Yeah, I know,” Korra sighs, shrugging on her overcoat. “Me too.”


	4. hallelujah | there'd be no distance that could hold us back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wish the world was flat like the old days  
> and I could travel just by folding a map  
> no airplanes, or speed trains, or freeways  
> there'd be no distance that could hold us back
> 
> —death cab for cutie, "the new year"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have RETURNED with an extra long and juicy chapter that finally warrants that promised E rating. also: a surprise new couple, and gratuitous tolkeinism. thank you all very much for of your patience and feedback; your lovely comments mean the world!
> 
> -
> 
> glissando: a continuous slide upward or downward between two notes.
> 
> -

No matter how many times Korra has done this, the day-of recital jitters always seem to catch her by surprise.

The auditorium is decorated and lined with row after row of powder blue folding chairs, the students are outfitted in their requisite concert uniform of white tops, black bottoms, and she, Korra, has actually managed to eat something that day, though that’s only thanks to Bolin and Asami’s bullying. 

“We don’t need you passing out on stage!” Asami chirps, shaking the chicken caesar salad bowl threateningly at her with a cajoling grin.

“That would never happen,” Korra grouses, but accepts it anyway, now half-stricken with fear that she’s just jinxed herself.

The rehearsals with all of her classes that day are 50% inspiring, 50% disastrous, which is unsurprising, and Korra has to remind herself for maybe the 500 millionth time since starting this job that no one who will be watching from the audience tonight expects every kid to perform perfectly—just their _own_ kid. It’s a very small and contradictory comfort.

She’s in the middle of doing some last minute height-based adjustments on the risers for her third and fourth graders when Ty Lee arrives, beaming, holding a giant bouquet of deep violet calla lilies. Korra glances at her, confused and distracted.

“What is that?” 

“It just got delivered to the main off—”

“Guys, _come on,_ I told you not to move,” Korra bursts out, over the ear-splitting rumbles and shrieks of the ancient risers. “If you bounce around like that, we won’t be able to hear any of the songs; the noise is too distracting. Let me see you stand perfectly still for ten seconds. Can we do that? Ten! Nine!”

Most of the kids take up the count, giggling, as Korra turns back to Ty Lee with a sigh, opening yet another tab in her mind to deal with whatever is happening with these flowers. “Okay, _what_ is this?” They’re her favorites, now that she’s stopping to actually look closer.

“They’re for _you!”_

“What?”

Ty Lee shoves the bouquet into her arms, and Korra struggles for a moment to find any indication of who it’s from. Then she sees it: a small white card, bearing a small, crisp black type on the inside that makes her ears warm. 

She can’t react to it now. The kids have almost finished their countdown, giddy with their stiff-limbed obedience. “THREE! TWO!”

“Aaaand one! Great job, guys,” Korra calls, smiling, tearing her gaze away from the card with difficulty as she addresses the children once more. When she looks over, Ty Lee is still there, watching her with a knowing gleam in her eye. “Alright, you’ve made your delivery. Thank you, now scram.”

Ty Lee’s merry giggle trails after her as she jetées off the stage and makes her way back to the auditorium’s double doors, braids flying behind her. Korra flounders for a moment, then sets the flowers gingerly down on the edge of the stage, right beside her feet. Ignoring the scattered murmurs of curiosity, she gestures for silence, eyes wide, and nods approvingly when they comply. 

“Rudolph, again please, from the top!”

* * *

**_Sorry to miss the show._ **

**_Thinking of you._ **

**_-K_ **

* * *

The holiday concert goes off without a hitch—the best one yet, Tenzin proclaims proudly to every parent he finds speaking with Korra afterwards, clapping her on the shoulder. 

“You say that every year, Tenzin.”

“Because every year I mean it!”

With the final activities of the year behind them and nothing but a few more days until the long winter holiday, the daily schedule slowly succumbs to celebratory pressure. Korra is all too grateful to phone in her lessons, playing saccharine holiday classics while letting the older kids sit in pods and play games and exchange folded notes; her younger kids watching Go Noodle and classic holiday-themed cartoons from her own childhood until they rebel, whining for the poignant bubblegum familiarity of the FCU (Frozen Cinematic Universe). It doesn’t take much for her to relent, even if she knows from experience that it means she’ll be singing “All is Found” under her breath for the next two weeks straight.

Korra hadn’t known what to expect of Kuvira’s extended absence, especially after the Kiss That Almost Was, as she has shamefully been referring to it whenever she wistfully reflects on that night. Would she be distant and uncommunicative? The type to want to talk on the phone? As much as Korra could drown in Kuvira’s voice, the thought of regular phone calls makes her ass itch. Fortunately, Kuvira is neither: a texter, if at first an infrequent one, each coveted missive bearing an artfully shot photo of her current locale with a dry caption.

_[Front view photo of_ _Neues Wiener Konservatorium, a prestigious music school in Vienna, the faded yellow of the historic building gleaming in the midday sun.]_

**Playing here tomorrow night, if I don’t lose fingers to frostbite first.**

_[A ground level view photo of a semi-busy cobblestoned street at sunset, antiquated signs jutting out above the entrance of each small establishment.]_

**I thought I remembered the Getreidegasse better, but as I started to text you I realized I just gave an adorable old couple directions that were very wrong. Mozart, forgive me.**

_[A semi-blurry photo of a still-steaming weiner in its bun, overturned on the ground beside a gutter, haloed by a messy smear of brown mustard.]_

**Penance :(**

It’s hard for Korra to resist, temporarily ignoring these missives in favor of doing her job or swiping her Metrocard or even getting a flu shot, drawing the doctor’s attention when her head whips toward her phone when it vibrates in her lap.

“You need to get that?” she asks ruefully, syringe aloft. 

A second text comes in from Kuvira, and Korra bites her lip, thinking of the meme she’d sent that she knew would crack Kuvira up. “No, sorry. Go ahead.”

“Alright. Just keep still for a second.”

Her dads find out accidentally. 

It’s not that Korra usually has much to hide from them—and it’s not that she’s _hiding_ anything, necessarily, right? It’s just that she doesn’t have a good answer for Zuko when he casually asks about Korra’s love life, if casual can ever be used to describe someone who devises a segue from a story Korra is telling about an insurance mishap to asking “And so have you been on any of those apps?”

Korra pauses clicking through the Holiday Classics tab on Netflix, watching the muted preview for Love Actually. “Dad, what?”

“You know, like Cinder—”

“TINDER, Zuko,” Korra hears Sokka yell in the background, and she laughs as Zuko gives that familiar huff of amused embarrassment.

“Go away! I’m talking to our daughter.”

“He’s right, it’s Tinder.”

“Alright, alright, regardless of the name, the question stands.”

“No, I am not on any apps.” Korra continues scrolling, feeling her face suffuse with heat as she thinks of a particularly flirty succession of texts she’d shared with Kuvira before bed the previous evening. She had to press a pillow over her face to contain the fire threatening to blaze out of it.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and Korra can practically hear the gears of Zuko’s brain whirring, working through his next question. “So you’re happy with being single?”

From anyone else, the question would be a subtly cutting one; from her dad, it’s wholly sincere. He’s always demonstrated an almost embarrassingly earnest desire to meet Korra exactly where she’s at—a product of the childhood trauma he’d experienced at the hands of his painfully distant father, Sokka had confessed to her once. It was a promise Zuko had made to himself when they knew Korra was on the way, to never be like him. 

Picturing his face now, gazing at her in attentive concern, makes her bite back the easy deflection that’s about to roll off her tongue, letting out a small sigh instead. “Well...I guess technically I’m still single, but…” she waits a beat, maybe for him to interrupt, and is met with only silence, because he isn’t Sokka, bless him. He’s waiting for her to finish. “But, I, I’m, kind of seeing? Someone?”

“You’re—oh. Oh!”

“It’s nothing, yet—I mean we’re still just—” Korra stops when a burst of whispers interrupts her, and she bites her lips into her mouth against a laugh as she listens. “I’m on speaker now, aren’t I.”

Neither of them bother lying to her. “Sweetheart, tell us EVERYTHING.” The excitement in Sokka’s voice is so endearing that she forgets about ninety percent of her shame. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Or person!” Zuko adds diplomatically.

“Or person.”

Korra settles back on the couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table and crossing her legs. “She’s a musician,” she begins, tipping her head back and staring up at the ceiling. “Like, a really good one.”

“Is she a cellist too?” Zuko asks, as Sokka makes an interested noise.

“No, pianist.”

“Oooh,” they say in complete unison, like they do sometimes, which never fails to make Korra laugh. 

“Yeah, it’s her actual profession.” Korra tries not to let a little bitterness seep into her voice, is not sure she’s successful. “She’s actually going to be in Austria through the new year, on tour.”

“Wow,” Sokka says. “And what’s her name?”

Korra rolls her eyes, but she’s in too deep now. “Kuvira.”

“Sweetheart, are you not happy with teaching?” Zuko asks, painfully observant as ever. “Are you still volunteering at Carnegie Hall?”

“She wasn’t volunteering, babe. Wait, Kuvira _Beifong_???”

“Sokka!” Zuko says peevishly.

“Yes, that’s her.” Sokka with Google was a menace. “And yeah, I’m still _working_ at Carnegie. Teaching is fine.”

“Just fine?”

“I’ve started playing cello again, though?” Korra glances over at it, at the small bundle of sheet music she’d secretly printed out at work the Friday before leaving for the holiday break—Gluck was like slipping on an old, forgotten sweater. “It felt...feels good to get back into it.”

“That’s wonderful, Korra!” Sokka cries. “Next stop, Juilliard!” There’s a brief, pregnant pause, then a wounded “hey!”

“Korra, he’s joking.” Zuko says pointedly, then his voice grows tentative. “Unless...are you thinking about going back to school?”

“What? No. I mean—no, I hadn’t—“ she hates their sudden silence, imagines the way their faces fall as they stare down at Zuko’s ratty little iPhone 6s. “Not really. Not now, at least.” Not now? Korra imagines it, pulling up webpages and scrolling through the application criteria, scraping together a portfolio, setting up a camera to record herself—and stops that line of thought in its tracks, feeling a knot begin to form in the pit of her stomach. It’s a fantasy, one that’s now completely out of the realm of possibility.

Besides, she can’t afford to go back to school full-time anyway, not with her rent and the loans she’s still paying off. 

God, her therapist would leap for joy if she even knew Korra was envisioning this. But she wasn’t, not really, so there was no point in imagining her pointed look of concern and encouraging nod, her soft-spoken “How does that make you feel?” Because honestly, it just makes Korra feel foolish and a little nauseous. 

“You still there?” Zuko asks, interrupting her reverie, and she swallows, shaking her head quickly.

“Yeah.” Korra clears her throat, slumping further into the couch and picking up the remote. “Anyway, back to Kuvira—nothing is set in stone yet, but she’s...pretty great. I like her a lot.”

Zuko makes an adoring sound that makes Korra’s ears burn and wish for a desperate second that she’d never opened this door at all. Thankfully, Sokka chimes in with a “and she’s not too bad on the eyes either!” that’s much easier to respond to.

“Don’t make it weird, Dad.”

“I’m just _saying!_ I have _eyes!”_

* * *

Christmas is a modest affair, as Korra doesn’t feel like shelling out another couple hundred to fly back home so soon after Thanksgiving. Asami and Zhu Li are in town too, so she spends most of the day in their cozy uptown apartment, getting drunk off spiked cider and egg nog while systematically making their way through the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy.

“It drives me crazy how much this little idiot falls down in this movie,” Zhu Li complains through a mouthful of kettle corn, frowning as Frodo does a small backwards tumble down Mount Caradhras. “Did he learn how to walk yesterday?”

“Hey, leave him alone,” Asami laughs, nudging Zhu Li’s thigh with the heel of her foot as she stretches further along the couch, adjusting the pillow beneath her head. “He’s clearly folding beneath the heavy weight of responsibility around his neck!”

“Simple physics,” Korra chimes in, reclining further in her favorite armchair, tucked into a soft fleece blanket that she keeps meaning to ask the origins of. Asami and Zhu Li have the best _stuff_ in their apartment. “Though he’s also canonically like three feet tall with huge fucking feet.”

“Oh come on, he’s taller than three feet!”

“Barely!”

Zhu Li squints at the screen, shakes her head. “They looked super tiny at the Prancing Pony. MAYBE four.”

“The point is,” Asami says loudly, reaching for her mug, “No one understands or respects the burden Frodo carries! Clearly!”

“The damsel always falls down in movies,” Korra points out, feeling rather drunk and noncommittal about the whole thing. She kind of wants more pie, but is way too comfortable to get up. 

“My butt hurts,” Asami announces to no one, then shifts, unearthing a kazoo from beneath the couch cushions. “Oh.”

“Where did that even—“ Zhu Li begins, then shakes her head. “Never mind.”

“You’re dating a kindergarten teacher,” Korra reminds her, as Asami blows her a sloppy-sounding kiss. 

“Speaking of kazoos, how is Kuvira? I can’t believe she didn’t come back for Christmas!” Asami says, craning her neck to look at Korra, who blinks. 

“Speaking of _kazoos?”_

“It’s an instrument!” Asami returns indignantly, placing it between her lips and blowing hard, unable to stop even her grimace as it toots out a noise somewhere between a weak whistle and a baleful bleat. “Okay, well.”

“Please throw that away,” Zhu Li remarks, eyes still fixed on the screen. “That sound will haunt my dreams.”

“She has to play tomorrow, so it didn’t make sense to get on a plane,” Korra explains, digging out her phone from the front pocket of her hoodie, checking her notifications. Bolin had sent a photo of Mako fast asleep, three marshmallows perfectly balanced on his face. “She’ll be back the third week of January, though.”

“Damn,” Zhu Li offers sympathetically, glancing over at Korra with a small frown. “I’m sorry, long distance sucks.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re _together_ together.”

“Yet!” Asami finishes, tossing a popcorn kernel in Korra’s direction. “You lovebirds talk every single night!”

Korra’s face burns, and she folds the blanket tighter over herself in bashful defense. “Yeah, well,” she argues intellectually.

“Anyway, you told me all about how you two were tragically interrupted during your last in-person conversation, so don’t sit here and act like you aren’t counting down the days until you can fuck her brains out.”

Korra’s jaw drops as she gasps, clutching a hand to her chest while Zhu Li spews a mouthful of egg nog all over the front of her sweater. “Jesus, Sato, have some class!”

“Fine, fine, until you take her to the _bone zone,”_ Asami cackles, sitting up to hand Zhu Li some napkins. “Sorry, baby, I love you.”

“I don’t even know if sh—nope, we’re not having this conversation,” Korra mumbles, face burning, as her phone suddenly vibrates. She picks it up and laughs out loud, flushing hot all over again. “Oh fuck, I think she heard you.”

“BOOOOONE ZOOOONE!” Asami yells triumphantly, until Zhu physically reaches over to confiscate her mug.

“Sami, you’re up here, I need for you to be down here.”

Korra snorts, clicking open the new message.

**Feliz Navidad!**

_Wow, you’re so corny._

**I regretted it as soon as I hit send. What are you up to?**

_lotr marathon, getting ready to switch to two towers. WAIT, please tell me you’ve seen lord of the rings….._

**I’ve seen Lord of the Rings.**

_Okay, but like...have you just seen it or have you SEEN it_

**Are you asking if I’m a casual viewer? Or if I can “speak ‘friend’ and enter?”**

_lol...?!?!?!_

**Mellon :)**

_Oh my god_

_Is it weird to say I’m a little turned on right now?_

_Ignore that. Too much cider_

**Too late. And yes, it is weird.**

_Whatever, you’ve exposed yourself too. There’s no going back now_

**You’re right. I should have sat on this so I could use it as leverage later.**

_Muahahaha_

**Fun fact: did you know that Viggo Mortensen broke his toe when he kicked the helmet in frustration after tracking the Urk-hai who kidnapped Merry and Pippin? That yell was genuine.**

***Uruk-hai**

“Fun fact: I think I’m in love with you,” Korra moans piteously, pulling a wild peal of laughter from Zhu Li, and summoning a tipsy Asami, who crawls along the length of the couch to grab Korra’s phone, reading the exchange hungrily, then look back at Zhu Li.

“Oh shit, babe, this is so cute I’m going to throw UP.”

“What did she say?” Zhu Li asks, grinning back at Korra, who’s groaning, covering her face with her hands. Asami scrolls up and begins reading out loud, dancing out of the way as Korra finally comes to her senses and sits up on her knees, making wild, fruitless attempts to grab her phone back. 

“I hate you!” Korra laughs as Asami finally lets her take it, squirming out from beneath the hand lovingly tousling her hair. “You and your freakishly long arms!”

“Go Wildcats!” Asami yells nonsensically, straightening up to pad off to the kitchen in her furry Adidas slides, pulling up the hood of her Santa onesie. “Anyone need drink refills? More pie? Cannabis, perhaps?”

“YES PLEASE,” Korra and Zhu Li shout back, in unison.

* * *

Hours later, during a break, Korra escapes to Zhu Li’s office to FaceTime Kuvira. She looks sleepy when she answers, the lamplight of her hotel room casting a soft yellow glow across her yawning face. Something about the way she hums and sniffs, pushing her hair away from her face, makes Korra’s heart seize almost painfully in her chest.

“Sorry, I forgot,” she says sheepishly, feeling greedy as she takes in every detail of Kuvira’s appearance. Kuvira snorts, rubbing her eyes.

“Sure you did,” she returns sarcastically, her voice gravelly with sleep. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too.” Korra doesn’t realize she’s fallen silent, just watching her, until Kuvira laughs again, resettling so she’s partially sitting up in bed, the stretched out collar of her faded purple t-shirt just visible. It looks soft to the touch. “Sorry, I didn’t have anything in particular to say.”

Kuvira’s smile is laced with melancholy. “Just come here already.”

“On my way.” Korra imagines it, lying in bed with Kuvira, tracing the bridge of her nose with her fingertip, seeing her beauty mark from up close, kissing it. “How was your Christmas?”

Kuvira shrugs. “Didn’t do much to celebrate. Well, I watched _It’s a Wonderful Life_ and got too drunk on hotel champagne.”

“Wow, I haven’t seen that in forever.”

“Are you wearing a snuggie?” Kuvira asks suddenly, peering closer at her phone camera, as if she’ll be able to see Korra from closer up. Korra looks down at herself and giggles.

“No, it’s just a blanket. It’s so comfortable. It’s basically a part of my body now.”

“Sexy.” Kuvira grins when Korra laughs again. She’s so pretty, _fuck,_ Korra is _so_ fucked. “Where are you in the marathon?”

“Ummm…” Korra bites back a self-conscious laugh at the sudden intensity of her feelings, taking much longer than she should to remember the answer to Kuvira’s question. “It was, uh...Pelennor Fields! Eowyn just killed the Witch King of Angmar.”

“She’s no man!”

“Exactly.”

“KORRA! WE’RE PRESSING PLAY IN FIVE!”

Kuvira chuckles as Korra rolls her eyes. “I think that’s your cue.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry for waking you up, seriously.”

“Don’t be.” Kuvira looks like she’s about to say something else, then bites her lip. “Merry Christmas, Korra.”

“Merry Christmas, Kuvira.”

* * *

The next day, Korra wakes up with a slight headache, and a new video message from Kuvira. The accompanying text reads, **Consider this a late and admittedly hastily assembled x-mas gift.**

Korra presses play, and claps a hand over her mouth a few seconds in.

It’s Kuvira seated at a piano, clearly dressed to perform in a sleek, ankle-length black dress, her hair pulled back into a long, loose braid that rests over one shoulder. And she’s playing one of the main themes from _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , “Concerning Hobbits,” with the visible pleasure and ease of one who’s been tinkering with a piece for a long time, making it her own. When she finishes, she smiles at the keys before looking up at the camera with a wink, and then the video stops.

Korra watches it five more times before the pounding in her head compels her to seek out water and an aspirin, but not before writing back.

_Best gift best gift best gift. Thank you!!!_

_And you’re stunning in that dress_

_Howard Shore can suck your DICK_

_(All respect to him, the legend)_

* * *

There are fourteen minutes until the new year, and Korra is trying her absolute best to have a good time.

New Year’s Eve is always a bit fraught, with all of its attendant expectations and pressure to begin anew, turn over a new leaf, and every other hokey sentiment that’s intended to make you appreciate the illusion of a blank page. But Korra knows better: getting older means more confusion, not less; added complications, compounded worries. It piles up, it accumulates, each failure and triumph leaving its mark, setting precedent after precedent, solidifying action into habit, pattern into lifestyle. A hamster spinning in her wheel. Can she break out? Is she doomed to ask these stupid, self-indulgent questions of herself every December 31, holding a red Solo cup filled with vodka cranberry? Was it all a cosmic joke?

“Stop moping!” Bolin chides, appearing out of nowhere beside her in the living room, where she’s not sullenly watching Mako and his new boyfriend, Wu, make the most disgustingly adorable eyes at each other as they talk, stopping every so often to exchange kisses. “Everyone here already knows they’re gross, you don’t have to pout about it.”

“I’m not moping or pouting,” Korra pouts, taking a sip of her drink. Bolin sighs, adjusting her black and silver party hat so it sits crookedly on her head.

“Whatever you say.”

With eight minutes to midnight, Korra checks her phone, unsurprised to see no texts. It’s late in Vienna anyway, but also, Kuvira hasn’t texted at all, for a little over a day, and it’s not like Korra had any concrete expectations—but of course she did, because otherwise she wouldn’t be upset. It’s just that this stupid holiday feels _significant_ , which is annoying because Kuvira’s so far away anyway, but Korra was at least hoping to text, at the very least, but ideally, Facetime, because she finds that the more that she sees Kuvira’s face, the more she _wants_ to see it, an ourobouros of desire as undeniable as it is dangerous.

With five minutes to midnight, Korra checks the mirror and admires, despite her lousy mood, her ass in this dress. And then she notices the lipstick on her teeth.

With two minutes to midnight, Asami corners Korra while she pours a drink, bizarrely demanding that she run downstairs and sign for a package.

Korra shoots her a skeptical, incredulous look, glancing at the time, then back at Asami. “You’re having something delivered right _now_?”

“Yes!” Asami looks up from her phone with a half-pleading, half-frenzied expression. “Please! I can’t go, I’m hosting!”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why can’t Zhu Li get it? I don’t even live here!”

“Zhu Li is occupied too!” Asami argues, giving Zhu Li a short, intense look that makes no sense to Korra, except to telegraph that Zhu Li is to follow her lead, because she suddenly busies herself with tidying the drinks table, capping bottles and gathering abandoned cups. Asami gestures to her in frustrated vindication. “See?” Behind them, Mako and Bolin are lost in a loud argument about a lesser plot point from the movie _Hot Rod_ , Wu watching Mako gesticulate with an adoring smile, Wei scratching his fingers up Bolin’s neck and into his hair as he half-listens, half-watches the TV, where Anderson Cooper is in Times Square taking shots with Hoda Kotb and Don Lemon.

Korra just looks from Asami and Zhu Li stonily for a moment, then sighs, conceding defeat. “Fine. What—where is this delivery person? They can’t come to the door?”

Asami shakes her head quickly. “No, you have to meet them downstairs. Go, hurry up, it’s almost midnight!”

“So?” Korra grumbles, making her way to the door, slipping back into her shoes and coat, already dreading the cold. She looks grumpily back at Asami, raising her voice to be heard over the music and conversation. Why didn’t she make one of the stupid boys go? Is it because she’s the only unpartnered person there? On the television, the NYE countdown clock is beginning to flash. Fifty-seven seconds. “Asami! Do I need your ID or something?”

“NO, just go!” Asami yells, for some reason looking like she’s trying not to laugh, so Korra raises her arms in mock surrender, grabbing the set of keys off the hook by the front door and leaving, perhaps letting the door slam shut a little louder than necessary behind her. 

“So fucking pushy,” she mutters beneath her breath as she steps into the elevator, jabbing the button for the ground floor. She can’t help but check her phone again, heart leaping when she sees a text, but it's just from one of her weird cousins, sending her a 90s style flashing HAPPY NEW YEAR! graphic. She double taps to give it a love react, then navigates to her message thread with Kuvira as the elevator door slides open. 

Still nothing.

Heading for the lobby’s double doors, she debates sending off a quick, casual text. She can stick with the classic three-word wish, though that may come off curt and insincere. But she is a little annoyed, after all. Or maybe she should just be honest and try to say something romantic yet witty and flippant, like, _too bad I’m not kissing you right now._

“Ughhh,” Korra groans, shoving through the doors, casting that idea aside too. There’s no one on the street, just the distant rumble of a car engine, faint shouts of laughter coming from the surrounding brownstones, the ground ashy with frost. Korra crosses her arms tightly over her chest and bounces up and down on the balls of her feet, trying to coax some warmth back into her already freezing extremities. _“So this is the new year,”_ she sings sardonically, watching her breath puff white in the frigid air. And then she pulls out her phone again, vaguely pissed and suddenly determined.

_Wish you were with me right now,_ she types quickly, hitting send before she can think too hard about it. To her pleasant shock, the three moving bubbles immediately pop up below the message, indicating that Kuvira is writing back. She’s barely aware of the muted shouts around her: the countdown from ten has begun. 

**Do you?**

Korra frowns at her phone, stymied by the mysteriously tight-lipped reply. Then she’s distracted by the sudden glare of headlights, a large black car rumbling to a stop in front of Asami and Zhu Li’s building. Right, the package. 

“Finally,” Korra murmurs, waiting for the driver to come around. But the back door opens instead, and Korra stares, dumbfounded, as the countdown completes, muted sounds of celebration filtering down to the quiet street where Kuvira is slamming the car door shut, slinging a small overnight bag onto her shoulder and walking in powerful strides over to Korra with a poorly concealed grin.

“What—“ Korra begins, but doesn’t have time to verbally work through her bewilderment, because Kuvira’s bag is thunking to the ground as she wraps her arms around Korra’s waist, pulling her in for a kiss that obliterates every half-formed fear and pessimistic projection, her lips soft and open and spreading an exhilarating, much-needed warmth through every vein, lighting her completely from within.

And so Korra can only laugh as she wraps her arms around Kuvira’s neck and goes in greedily for another, and another, not totally sure if she can trust reality right now, deciding to just milk whatever paradise this is while she has it. Kuvira certainly _feels_ real, her hair loose and full beneath her black beanie; she _smells_ real, the sweet, artificial tang of peppermint Orbit gum and the lavender antibacterial gel Korra knows she liberally applies after flying. And she tastes—well, it’s a taste that sends Korra flying, or maybe falling, if there’s any difference at all. There’s a weightlessness inside of her, even as she revels in the heady pleasure of Kuvira’s touch, and now that she’s felt it, she’ll never get enough. 

“Surprise,” Kuvira finally murmurs, smiling, against her lips. “Now you understand the radio silence. Sorry.”

“I thought you couldn’t get away,” Korra says wonderingly, taking in Kuvira’s glittering eyes, the even slope of her nose, the pink tinge in her cheeks, a bit hazy and shadowed beneath the streetlight. She feels downright spoiled, after relying on digital likenesses for so long, now being able to touch and kiss and just _look_ at her in the flesh. 

Kuvira shrugs, raising an impertinent eyebrow. “I found a last minute flight and splurged. I have to fly back the morning after tomorrow, but.” She starts to say something else, then jumps when a loud crack erupts from the next block, a multicolored sparkle of lights exploding in the air above a nearby cluster of trees. “Oh, come here, we have to—” Kuvira says quickly, almost apologetically, pulling Korra back in for another slow, knee-weakening kiss as illegal fireworks continue to erupt above them. 

“A little on the nose,” Korra teases as she pulls away, pulse pounding, stooping to pick up the forgotten bag, lacing the fingers of her other hand with Kuvira’s. “Come on, I’m turning into a popsicle. _Wait.”_ She pauses, looking from the front door of the building back to Kuvira, who’s watching her with pleasant confusion. “You and Asami were...plotting this?!”

Kuvira smirks. “Yes,” she says simply. “Come on, I want to meet my co-conspirator in person.”

When they get back inside and the door is flung open by a wildly grinning Asami, Korra remembers, with a sinking feeling, who her friends are. She does her best to telegraph BE NORMAL through a tight glare she sends Bolin, Mako, and Asami, who all easily ignore her in favor of giving Kuvira minutely varying expressions of appreciation and awe. Despite her worry, Korra can’t help but feel the tiniest bit smug: Kuvira is _hot._ She’s just really hot, and now everyone truly knows it.

“Kuvira!” Asami exclaims, stepping forward to pull her into a hug, which Kuvira clearly wasn’t expecting but is nonetheless charmed by, shooting Korra a fondly perplexed smile as she returns the embrace. “You made it, welcome!” She turns to Korra with a saucy eyebrow raise, and Korra rolls her eyes. “You were so annoyed with me, weren’t you?”

“Fine, fine. Thank you, Asami,” Korra delivers in a monotone, but can’t commit to feigning irritation; the night’s redirection has been too drastic for her to be anything but happy. “That timing was a work of art.”

“Accidental,” Kuvira admits, as Zhu Li takes her coat and hangs it in the closet. “We taxied forever when I landed; I was supposed to be here an hour ago. Thanks, and hi, I’m Kuvira.”

“Zhu Li. We’re glad you’re here. Korra’s pout was approaching critical levels.”

“Seriously?” Korra asks while everyone laughs, tilting her head in Zhu Li’s direction, feeling betrayed: Zhu Li is usually Switzerland in these kinds of situations. An unrepentant shrug is all she receives in response. 

After meeting the boys (for reasons Korra doesn’t understand, Bolin asks Kuvira if she’s heard of [Robert Schumann’s hand-stretching contraption](https://www.wqxr.org/story/weird-classical-when-schumann-ruined-his-fingers-and-his-concert-career/), seeming concerned when she isn’t particularly scandalized; Mako gets inexplicably tongue tied, which Wu finds _delightful_ ) they’re able to get a corner to themselves, settling into the couch while Asami’s horribly dated playlist plays on. 

“Wow,” Kuvira nods meaningfully, leaning forward to grab her drink from the table as the synth-y opening chords of MGMT’s _Time to Pretend_ blares from the speakers. “Nostalgia in D major.”

Korra snorts, just watching Kuvira from her half-reclined position, laughing when Kuvira chuckles too, rolling her eyes at herself. “Yeah, you just said that.”

“You’re not allowed to shame me,” Kuvira returns archly, nudging Korra’s thigh slowly with her own, her eyes dark with mischief as she takes a sip from her cup. “I just flew nine hours to see you.”

“To see me?” Korra confirms quietly, looking down at her hand as it finds its way to Kuvira’s knee, her thumb working over a small crease in her jeans. She hums out a laugh as Kuvira moves in close, placing her hand over Korra’s, brushing her lips over Korra’s ear, bringing goosebumps to the surface of her skin. 

“Mmhmm.”

“Do you—are you—” Korra’s mouth drops open, a bit, as Kuvira nips suddenly at the shell of her ear, making her clench hard, a sudden simmering heat at her core. “Tired...after that long flight?”

“I’m ready to go, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is.”

* * *

Kuvira’s apartment is closer than Korra’s, even if the Uber ride there feels torturously long: every part of Kuvira seems more alluring the longer Korra refrains from touching her the way she wants. And then they’re climbing the steps and entering the front door, Korra marveling at the drastically altered circumstances of this visit as she kneels down to take off her shoes, Kuvira quietly shedding her own, shouldering her bag as she takes Korra’s hand and leads her down a hallway she’s never been invited to venture down before.

“Weird not having Colossus here,” Korra remarks, needing something to say, and Kuvira hums in agreement as she pushes open a door, flicks on the light. 

“She’s in good hands, thankfully,” Kuvira responds, setting her bag on a cushioned bench beneath a sprawling window and turning to Korra with an expectant smile. “So, welcome.”

“Is this where the magic happens?” Korra leers, laughing when Kuvira makes a face. Her room is as tastefully sparse as the rest of her apartment, though notably darker in theme—her walls are painted a deep bluish-grey, the bedspread and curtains and pillows all in complementary shades. “Cozy.” Her mouth goes completely dry when she looks back at Kuvira, whose back is to her as she pulls off her sweater and unsnaps her black bra, revealing a short stanza of poetry tattooed below her right shoulderblade in black, looping script. Korra only has enough time to make out the final words _of something_ _beautiful, but annihilating_ before Kuvira speaks, recapturing her attention.

“I’m going to shower,” she announces, glancing back at Korra as she steps into a bathroom Korra hadn’t noticed before. “Make yourself comfortable.” The door clicks shut before Korra can summon sufficient mental faculties to respond. 

Well! 

Once she hears the water switch on, Korra shrugs out of her outer layers, figuring it gauche to strip down completely, though she still feels a little awkward snooping through Kuvira’s bookshelves in nothing but panties and a tank top. Better than stark naked, though. She pauses in front of a floor length mirror, turning a bit to examine her body critically, running her fingers through her hair. And then her blood pressure kicks into overdrive as she hears the water shut off, the unmistakable scrape of shower curtains opening. She looks around, panicked, wondering whether she should get under the covers or perch seductively on top of the sheets or just stay where she is or—

The door opens before Korra can decide, so she ends up just kind of hovering by the mirror with what she hopes is a casual smile as Kuvira steps back into the bedroom, wrapped in a small purple towel. She laughs a little at Korra’s expression, gathering her wet hair in her hands, combing through it with her fingers.

“What’s that face?” Kuvira teases, and Korra can’t take it, has to come closer. Kuvira watches her approach with a gleam of challenge in her eyes, letting go of her hair, rubbing her damp hands on the towel. Korra’s eyes follow the motion as she finally steps close enough to touch, thrilled to discover that when barefoot, Kuvira’s height advantage is negligible. 

“Hi there,” she says stupidly, watching a droplet of water make its slow descent down the side of Kuvira’s neck, continuing down her chest until it soaks into the plush material of her towel. “Good shower?”

“Korra.”

“Yeah, alright.” Korra tugs her closer by the towel, which immediately loosens in her grip, sliding to the ground as she wraps a hand around Kuvira’s bare hip, moving in to trace the path of that water droplet with her tongue. “Whoops.”

“Bullshit,” Kuvira laughs, totally unashamed of her sudden nakedness, miles and miles of pale skin gleaming in the yellow lamplight. She’s solid, like Korra, but slightly more slender, a mesmerizing contrast of smoothly hewn muscle and supple curves, flushed and still damp beneath Korra’s hands. She tangles the fingers of one hand in Korra’s hair as the assault on her neck continues, using the other to slide beneath Korra’s top, palming her abs appreciatively.

Korra moans, bringing their bodies closer, craving closeness, already tipsy on Kuvira’s taste and the grip she has on her hair, the tiny sounds she emits every time Korra sucks a patch of skin into her mouth. “This is okay, right?”

“Bed,” Kuvira orders, in lieu of a response, and then kisses Korra firmly before she can move, breaking away again to nip at her ear. “Bed, bed, bed.”

“Absolutely.” Korra feels a little like she’s losing her mind as she turns them and shoves Kuvira gently backwards, following her down onto the springy surface, slotting their lips together in another hungry kiss. Kuvira moans softly into her mouth, and Korra wonders why it sounds like a complaint until she realizes Kuvira’s pulling impatiently at her top, trying to get it off. She obliges quickly, tossing it aside as she sucks another bruise into Kuvira’s neck, and then continues a line of kisses down her chest, shooting a heated glance upwards at the same time that she opens her mouth to place a broad lick over a peaked nipple. 

_“Oh!”_ Kuvira’s fingers tangle in Korra’s hair again, pressing her there, which is no hardship at all, no better place to be. Korra takes her time lavishing slow licks and bites, learning from Kuvira’s gasps and involuntary movements what she likes best. She looks up again as she switches to the other, noting Kuvira’s flushed skin and teeth-bitten lip with satisfaction. 

“Can I touch you?” Korra asks quietly, snaking a hand down Kuvira’s stomach, curling her fingers there experimentally. Not ticklish, then. Kuvira looks down at her as if she’s grown a second head, nodding vigorously, opening her legs wider.

“Yeah, yes, of course—“

“Here?” Korra clarifies, palming her mound gently, bending to suck at her other nipple, flicking it once, twice with her tongue. 

Kuvira whines, then chuckles breathlessly at herself, going redder. “Korra.”

“Can I do this?” Korra asks, dragging her fingers slowly over the hardened nub of Kuvira’s clit, feeling her own twitch in sympathy when Kuvira gasps, dragging her nails up Korra’s back. _“Fuck.”_ She rubs in small circles, moaning brokenly into Kuvira’s chest at the feel and sound of her excitement. 

“Mmmhh—that’s—” Kuvira’s belly tenses suddenly as she tosses her head sideways on the pillow, wet hair spilling onto her face, chest heaving. _“Uhhn,_ I can’t, m’gonna come...”

Korra surges upward to kiss her, tasting her tongue as Kuvira’s grip on her shoulders tightens and she cries out, grinding her clit against Korra’s hand. She takes several moments to recover, still twitching with aftershocks as Korra fondles her folds a bit more, teasing at her hole but never going fully inside, wanting to wait, save _that_ particular pleasure for later.

Kuvira’s hands are ceaseless, exploring, running over the firm muscle of Korra’s biceps and down her forearms, back up to slide along her shoulders and down the shifting planes of her back, cupping her ass and spreading it, pulling a moan of surprise from Korra. At Kuvira’s urging, she quickly shoves her underwear off, moaning louder into Kuvira’s mouth as a determined hand again slides over the curve of an asscheek, dipping in between, then sliding down, down to play at her hole.

“Oh, _shit,_ oh, my god,” Korra breathes, planting her knees firmly on either side of Kuvira’s thighs to adjust the angle, give Kuvira’s hand more room to reach her clit, ghosting over it cruelly before pressing the tip of one index finger inside, just to the first digit, sliding back out. The sound Korra makes is embarrassing and uncontrollable. 

“You feel amazing.” Kuvira swallows audibly, biting at Korra’s chin, pressing her lips against her ear. “I wanna taste you. Can I?”

And that’s how Korra finds herself straddling Kuvira’s face, although she usually doesn't love this position, mouth falling open as Kuvira’s eyes close, her thumbs pressed tightly to Korra’s mons, spreading her open as she licks eagerly at her clit. At the first pass, Korra has to reach out to grip the headboard, knuckles straining. At the second, she can’t do anything but thrust lightly forward, head falling back in rapture at the slow riptide of pleasure. Kuvira’s hands shift upwards, palming Korra’s breasts, pinching her nipples, and then Korra is stricken with an image of those hands dancing powerfully over piano keys, and comes instantly, whimpering and groaning as she loses the battle to not just wantonly hump Kuvira’s face though her orgasm. Thankfully Kuvira, pressing her closer and increasing the speed of her licks with muffled moans, doesn’t seem to mind.

Finally, Korra dismounts and slumps at Kuvira’s side, her entire body thrumming with soft electricity, breathing heavily. When she looks over at Kuvira, Kuvira turns to look back at her. 

“Well, happy fucking new year.”

Korra giggles, then sighs expansively, finding Kuvira’s hand on the bed and raising it to her mouth, just breathing into the spaces between her fingers. 

* * *

When Korra wakes the next morning, the mid-morning sun is peering through misty clouds, and she’s alone.

Kuvira’s bed is so comfortable she’s tempted to sink back into sleep, but her absence is concerning—and then she hears it, and laughs to herself, her heart pinging _on_ in her chest like a lightbulb. Sliding out from the warmth of the sheets and putting on her discarded underclothes from the night before, she follows the sound of music to the living room, where Kuvira’s seated at the piano, hair loose and a little wild, dressed (or undressed) similarly to Korra. She glances up, catching Korra’s eye, and smiles as she continues playing, raking her eyes down her form, before letting the meandering, contemplative melody trail off, clearly unfinished. “Morning. Did I wake you?”

Korra shrugs, sidling up next to the piano bench. Kuvira reaches out, wraps a possessive arm around Korra’s waist, pulling her in to press a kiss to her belly. “Just missed you,” Korra admits, humming a few notes from the lilting melody, intrigued. “Was that a Kuvira Beifong original? I liked it.”

Kuvira looks up at her with an expression Korra can’t quite decipher, creeping her fingers beneath Korra’s tank top, nails scratching gently at her lower back. “It’s not quite there yet.”

“Still.” Korra lets herself be pulled down to the bench and into a slow kiss. “Mmm, morning breath twins.”

Kuvira’s lips curve into a smile as she thumbs at Korra’s chin. “Play something for me.”

“Not a pop quiiiz,” Korra groans playfully, dropping her head to nip at Kuvira’s shoulder. She wants to climb Kuvira like a tree, she wants to keep kissing her until they both run out of air, she wants to just stare at the way the sunlight spills across her face, bathing her in its soft glow. She settles for pressing a kiss to her cheek and squeezing her hand, then rolls her shoulders as she properly faces the piano. “Okay. Requests? If you say Ravel, I’m leaving.”

“Dealer’s choice,” Kuvira offers, so Korra stretches her neck—left side, then right—and begins to play, her left hand building out the scales while her right flows through the melody, shooting Kuvira a smirk. “Hey, if you recognize it, you have to sing along.”

Kuvira sends a disbelieving look Korra’s way. “That’s not happening.” But Korra’s too blissful to argue, so she hums along instead, the notes quickly coming back to her as she plays, rocking gently with the regular progressions. She can feel Kuvira watching her, so she bites her lip against a smile until a hand comes to rest on the inside of her thigh, and she instantly stalls on the keys. 

“Keep going.” The words are breathed against her ear, Kuvira’s hand more purposeful now, though still unmoving. It’s only when Korra exhales shakily and resumes playing that questing fingers slide up, up, and into her underwear, slow and sure.

Korra huffs out a laugh that turns into something like a whine, stomach coiling deliciously as she directs every ounce of concentration she can spare into the song, which she can normally play in her sleep. “I will...never...hear this song...the same way.” She can feel Kuvira’s answering grin pressed against her jaw, and she swallows thickly at the slow tide of pleasure that washes over her in time with the steadily ascending scales, over and over. And then she loses the thread, eyes shut as she abandons the exercise altogether, both of them too far gone in the pleasure of giving and receiving to flinch at the sudden, jarring notes as Korra’s fingers find purchase wherever they can. 

It isn’t long before Korra’s head is falling back, crying out her release as Kuvira strokes her through it, the movements of her hand stretching the thin material of Korra’s underwear. She nudges at Korra’s face until their mouths meet in a bruising kiss, and eventually, they make it over to the couch.

* * *

“Do you have any resolutions?” Korra asks into the peaceful silence, as Kuvira half-dozes on top of her, a pleasantly heavy weight. She feels positively drugged out as makes small shapes into the warm skin of Kuvira’s back, the other hand gently separating the loose curls of her hair.

Kuvira hums low, noncommittal, contentedly resettling against Korra. “Finish this song?”

Korra angles her head downward, interested. She doesn’t usually speak so plainly about whatever composition she’s been working on. She’s a little desperate to hear it in full. “Say more.”

A pause, and Korra can feel the slow sweep of Kuvira’s eyelashes as she blinks. “Not much else to say.”

“You’re so mysterious. You can’t be sexy and talented _and_ mysterious, it’s overkill.”

“Cope.” She jerks and chokes out a surprised giggle when Korra pinches the rounded curve of her ass. “Your turn.”

Chewing the inside of her lip, Korra devotes both hands to the glorious task of playing in Kuvira’s hair, debating. “My dads would say I should go back to music school.”

Kuvira makes a soft, relaxed sound at the easy scrape of nails against her scalp, but there’s no distracted quality to her tone when she speaks. “What would _you_ say?”

Korra didn’t mean for it to sound like she lets their decisions rule her life, because it’s objectively untrue, but isn’t sure how to walk it back. Especially because, she decides, she doesn’t disagree, not in this. Rather than quietly stew in the unexpected realization, she decides to just say it. “I’d...say I agree...”

Kuvira tilts her head back until she can look up at Korra, who’s staring, dazed, somewhere near Kuvira’s left shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I want to. I miss playing all the time. I’ll miss the kids, but—” she stops, her gaze meeting Kuvira’s for a brief, embarrassed second before she forces a chuckle, rolling her eyes. “I’m talking like I’ve already been accepted.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Kuvira immediately returns, and she seems so genuinely skeptical that something in Korra’s chest and gut blazes luminous and warm.

Korra groans, tightening her legs around Kuvira’s slim frame, keeping her in place though she isn’t moving. “You really have to leave _tomorrow?”_

“Don’t think about it,” Kuvira mumbles, petting a reassuring hand down Korra’s side, pressing a kiss against the inside of her breast. Then Korra’s stomach rumbles, loudly. “Wow, same.”

“I’m too hungry to be ashamed of how loud that was,” Korra admits into her hair. Kuvira snorts.

“It actually vibrated against my ear.”

It’s decided that Korra will borrow some of Kuvira’s clothes to go to the donut place nearby to get them food while Kuvira checks in with her pet sitter and then checks in for her flight. It’s a shivery, sparkling kind of cold out, wispy, unthreatening clouds shifting in the sky, and Korra hustles into the tiny shop gratefully, hugging her arms tight around herself. She may never give Kuvira’s hoodie back, it smells just like her and feels like heaven. 

Thankfully, the place isn’t too crowded, and Korra is able to browse the juice options in relative peace, trying to find the particular green smoothie Kuvira favors. Her arm is bumped by a tall man with dark hair as she withdraws, and she turns to give him a half glare before realizing he’s probably one of the most beautiful men she’s ever seen in her life—and she hasn’t thought about men in that way in a very long time.

“So sorry,” he says sincerely, a shock of near-black hair falling into golden eyes. He could be 35 or 50 or anywhere in between, it’s impossible to tell. “Too much to drink last night, I’m still out of it.”

“Same,” Korra responds airily, shaking her head. “No worries.”

He gives her another apologetic smile before turning and walking away, and Korra shakes her head again to regain her bearings. Forgets him as she pays for the rather robust box of donuts and two juices, and then abruptly remembers when she spies the same head of thick, dark hair while walking to the exit. He’s speaking to another, shorter man that he’s with, an arm wrapped around his waist and smiling softly, and then when the companion tilts his head up to accept a briefly tender, casual kiss Korra has to bite her tongue against a hysterical giggle.

It’s Bumi.

He catches her eye a moment later, and Korra blinks, watching Devastatingly Handsome Man nuzzle at the side of Bumi’s head, oblivious, while Bumi shoots her a wink. 

“Happy new year, Miss Korra!” he calls out knowingly, and she nods, eyebrows raised, blushing a little when DHM finally notices her again with a puzzled smile and wave. _You know her?_ she sees him say to Bumi, his words inaudible from this distance.

“You too, Bumi!”

Her phone is out the second the door closes behind her, furiously texting the group chat as she rounds the corner, now barely noticing the cold.

**Korra:** UM HELLO

**Korra:** 🚨🚨🚨I JUST RAN INTO BUMI AND HIS HOT YOUNG BOYFRIEND????? IN THE DONUT SHOP?????🚨🚨🚨

**Mako:** ...is that a euphemism?

**Asalami Sato:** uhh WHAT

**Asalami Sato:** can I just say that this was not the post-coitus text I was expecting!

**BOLIN BOLIN BOLIN:** wait Bumi as in...Bumi? 

**Korra:** YES

**Mako:** how hot and how young exactly?

**Asalami Sato:** yeah pics or it didn’t happen

**Korra:** I couldn’t take pictures, they were right there??

**Asalami Sato:** have I taught you nothing Korra 

**Korra:** anyway like uncomfortably hot. And TALL. And def younger though this guy was kind of ageless tbh. Like a sexy military vampire

**Mako:** you all owe me 20 bucks

**Asalami Sato:** ???

**BOLIN BOLIN BOLIN:** no one ever placed bets on this, bro

**Mako:** I know but somehow the surprise in this chat feels homophobic 

**Korra:** we’re all gay 

**Asalami Sato:** guys remember when Mako got wasted on his birthday and revealed that he had a sex dream about Bumi

**Korra:** oh RIGHTTTTT

**Mako:** 🙄

**BOLIN BOLIN BOLIN:** HAHAHAHahahaahah

**Asalami Sato:** wait wait wait we will return to this frankly wonderful development but first korra how did it go?? 👁

**Korra:** hehe 🥰💦

**BOLIN BOLIN BOLIN:** attagirl!!!

**Korra:** more later just got back to kuvira’s byeeeeee

It’s possible Korra spends a few seconds playing house as she turns the key in Kuvira’s lock, feeling very foolish for the tiny thrill she gets from pretending this is the normal state of affairs, but glad she can enjoy the childish fantasy in the privacy of her own mind. She can hear Kuvira on the phone in the living room as she unlaces her boots and hangs her coat in the closet, and the longer she eavesdrops on the conversation, the more obvious it becomes that this isn’t a pleasant chat. 

When Korra comes in from depositing the food in the kitchen, Kuvira is seated on the couch in leggings and a Juilliard sweatshirt, elbows resting on her knees, one hand in her hair, the other holding the phone aloft, which seems to be on speaker. She glances up at Korra with a tense look. 

“My cat sitter’s father fell unexpectedly ill literally this morning and she has to go see him, so she can’t keep Colossus.” She’s on hold, evidently. “She’s trying to get in touch with a friend who might be able to keep her, but she’s doubtful. I feel bad that she’s stressing about this, but—”

“I’ll take her,” Korra says, before she’s aware of even having the thought. When she hears her words, she doesn’t regret them, though. Kuvira’s expression of shock and gratitude clinches it. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What? Are you—” Kuvira doesn’t take her eyes off Korra as a voice interrupts, plaintive with regret. “I may have found a solution,” Kuvira answers, then gives Korra a look like, _are you sure?_

“She loves me, we’ll have a great time.” Was this overstepping? Maybe, Korra can’t tell. But she wants to help, and it’s clearly making Kuvira happy. She can use the company, anyway. “Seriously, I want to do it.”

Kuvira takes the phone off speaker and relays the news, then hangs up, springing upwards to throw her arms around Korra, her face centimeters from Korra’s, gleaming eyes fond. “You’re the fucking best, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Korra responds, smug. Her heart is hammering, and she wants to taste Kuvira’s beauty mark. “Do I have to go get her, or…?”

“She’ll get dropped off this afternoon, before the flight.” Kuvira kisses her cheek, her nose, her lips. “I owe you. Seriously.”

“Hell yes you do,” Korra quips, growing wary at the sudden look of mischief in Kuvira’s eyes. “Oof, do I even _want_ to know what you’re thinking right now?”

“I don’t know,” Kuvira replies ominously, raising an eyebrow, then laces her fingers with Korra’s, leading them to the kitchen. “Come on, I’m starving.”

The day passes quickly, because of course it does. Neither of them leave the apartment again, alternating between napping and fucking and talking and laughing in bed about absolutely nothing, ordering in when they get hungry again. Colossus gets dropped off and purrs like crazy as she wends her way between both of their legs, aggressively demanding attention. Hours later they forget to shut the bedroom door and there’s a rather awkward moment when she jumps onto the bed as Korra is busy parting Kuvira’s legs, startling a scream out of Korra when she suddenly feels fur moving against her back. Once she’s locked out of the room it takes about five minutes for Kuvira to stop laughing so Korra can get back to it.

Kuvira is silk and honey on her tongue, the soft lines of her body unfurling like ribbon as Korra methodically takes her apart. Every caress, every kiss, every lick feels sacrosanct, not only because of their imminent separation but just for the sheer gift of touch—immediate and tender. Kuvira’s quick, sharp gasps, the slick trails at the junction of her thighs, the pink flush staining her chest and neck. Her hands are spread and firm where they grip Korra’s back, clutch her ass, grapple at her shoulder. Twist into her hair, _hard._ The pain is a lance of a pleasure in a completely foreign key—when they both hear the unequivocally _desperate_ sound that quivers from her throat, Kuvira pulls back enough to look her in the face, irises bled nearly to black, lips parted. 

“You like that.” It isn’t a question, so Korra doesn’t answer at first, feeling herself drift somewhere more loose, more pure. Kuvira’s voice has always been embarrassingly, dangerously close to a (secret) kink of Korra’s, but with the grip she’s maintaining in her hair, its power is sudden and complete. Kuvira’s neck is hot beneath Korra’s tongue as she drags her teeth along the thumping pulse, riding a slow grind against Kuvira’s thigh, shivering in pleasure.

“Mm. Yeah.”

“This—or—”

“Both.” 

Kuvira growls low in her chest, a sound both fed up and resigned as she abruptly grabs Korra and flips them over—the ease of it is almost startling. She gazes wonderingly down at Korra as she positions herself on her knees, slow and predatory. “Where did you _come_ from?”

Korra’s nearly hysterical giggle tumbles into gasps when Kuvira holds her thighs open, angles herself _down_ in a heavy, slick glide. “I don’t know. _Wh—_ where were _you?”_ It’s not quite what she means to say, but there’s a fog descending that makes words difficult. It’s impossible, now, to bite back the thin, reedy moans that have been threatening to burst free, coaxed forth with each dragging thrust.

Kuvira’s stomach flexes in a steady rhythm as she bears down against Korra, chuckling darkly into her ear. Her voice is like dusk, thick and hooded. “Either way, here we are.” 

Korra whimpers, shoving her hips upward to chase the oncoming blaze, grateful in her total surrender. “Keep talking,” she pants, uncaring. Kuvira makes an inquiring noise, slowing her pace, biting at her chin. 

“What should I talk about?” Teeth gently nibbling Korra’s lower lip, kissing her open, licking in before retreating. “How much I want to bury myself—here?” A sharp thrust, pulling twin needy groans into the thick air. “Where you’re this open and— _mmm_ —wet for me?”

_“Fuck.”_ Korra’s fingers spasm in their rough hold of the sheets, her back arching as she lets out a hoarse cry, the world shorting out in a blazing, white rush. Time spins away as she quakes, the pleasure sharpening for a second time when Kuvira suddenly ducks down to lap at her pulsating opening, flicking a greedy tongue over her clit. _“Kuvira_ —ah, OH god, wait, wait _wait—”_

Kuvira obliges immediately, rubbing her nose over Korra’s silken mound, a delicious pressure against the renewed series of tremors, too sensitive for direct touch. She dips her tongue in the creased center of Korra’s abs, dancing over the lines of quivering muscle, then moves up to hover teasingly over a nipple. 

“D—” Korra manages, shaking her head drunkenly as she wags a finger, her face spilling open into an exhausted, sated smile. “Don’t you dare.”

Kuvira raises an eyebrow, holding Korra’s gaze as she lowers herself another inch, the tip of a pink tongue peeking out.

Korra raises an eyebrow right back, sliding a hand down the middle of their bodies, letting her fingers slip through the messy slick spread around Kuvira’s core. Her voice breaks as she cries out, pumping her hips against Korra’s hand. The sound is incredible, and Kuvira’s are even better, so much so that Korra wonders for a wild second if she can come again from it—from the sensation of Kuvira’s flushed, slippery folds as she strokes them and strokes them.

_“Inside,”_ Kuvira pleads in a shaky whisper, stunning Korra with the speed at which she falls apart, knees sliding further open. A silky, wet warmth sucks Korra’s index finger in, out and then in, and then two, loud and wet as Kuvira clenches hard, releasing the sweetest note Korra’s ever heard, which stretches to a crescendo when Korra’s fingers close around a nipple, rolling it slowly.

Korra fucks her through it, swallowing against a sudden rush of spit as Kuvira’s cunt squeezes and squeezes around her, dripping thick down her knuckles and onto Korra’s belly. Until Kuvira shudders and slides dazedly off, collapsing beside Korra onto her stomach. The ringing scarcity in the ensuing silence reveals just how loud they’d been, and hooded green eyes meet blue as they both laugh and laugh, breathless, boneless, blissed out.

* * *

Korra wakes to an empty bed again, but this time, the air feels dimmer, and there’s a note.

**_I couldn’t stand waking you up to say goodbye. You look so perfect in my bed. Keep my keys and send photos of the furry brat._ **

**_-K_ **

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if the moon smiled, she would resemble you.  
> you leave the same impression  
> of something beautiful, but annihilating.
> 
> —sylvia plath, "the rival"
> 
> -
> 
> thank you for reading, ily! find me on twitter: @kuviraava


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